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OVERHEARD 








OVERHEARD 


FIFTEEN TALES 


BY 

STACY AUMONIER 




GARDEN CITY 

DOUBLEDAY, 


NEW YORK 

PAGE & COMPANY 

1924 


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PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN 





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CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I 


N 

i 

*A 

OVERHEARD . 


THE FALL 9 

ONE SUNDAY MORNING ..•••• 33 

THE DARK CORRIDOR. 45 

THE KIDNAPPED “ GENERAL ” . . • 7 1 

THE FRIENDS ..^9 

THE PERSISTENT MOTHER . • • • . 119 

WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED. I 4^ 

william’s NARROW SQUEAK . . • • .161 

WHAT WAS SHE TO THINK ? . • • • • I ^5 

ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER . . • • I 97 

THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON . . • 215 

DARK RED ROSES . 2 4 x 

THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT . . • 257 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF . . . • * 2 75 




































V 










































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1 













. 











NOTE 


The publishers have included in this volume 
The Friends. Although this story has 
appeared in book form before, it is one of 
Mr. Aumonier’s earlier stories which obtained 
a great succes d’estime at the time, and was 
even proclaimed by The Spectator as one of 
the best stories they ever remembered to 
have read in English, and yet being an early 
story, it was not widely read. 

All the other stories appear here for the 
first time in volume form. 
































































OVERHEARD 


It was nearly two o’clock. The tea-shop was at its 
busiest. Clerks, salesmen, typists, shoppers. from the 
suburbs jostled against each other in the scramble for buns, 
tea, sausages, fried fish, ham or coffee. Everyone seemed 
hungry and hurried. The atmosphere reeked with the 
varied odours of cooked food. Some were eating greedily, 
others calling impatiently for their bills or grumbling at 
the slackness of the service, or about a draught which 
came from undiscoverable places. The slim girl who served 
some thirty odd customers in the annexe moved hither 
and thither with an overladen tray, which she had to carry 
twenty yards backwards and forwards to the serving hatch. 
Her movements were languid and listless, but her memory 
seemed surprising. She would take seven or eight orders 
of such varied nature as “ large coffee, Cambridge sausages, 
roll and butter, and plum jam,” to “ poached eggs on toast 
and a small tea,” and she remembered them all correctly 
and brought the refreshment to the right persons. She was 
of indeterminate age, somewhere round about the thirties, 
with fair pretty hair, and a face that at one time might have 
been almost beautiful. 

“ Hurry up with my scrambled eggs on toast, miss, I’m 
going to a matinee.” 

“ Yes, madam.” 

She was studiously polite to everyone, polite but inert. 
She seemed to be performing her duties as though mesmer¬ 
ized. Gradually the crowd began to thin. The clerks and 
typists had to be back at their offices, the lady had gone 
to her matinee, the salesmen to their clients. As they 

I 


OVERHEARD 


poured out, queuing up at the pay-desk, a few late comers 
straggled in. Among the latter came a young man of 
somewhat florid appearance. He was wearing a weU-cut 
blue serge suit, with a yellow woollen waistcoat, and a felt 
hat He had a red, rather coarse face, a httle clipped 
moustache, and splendid teeth which flashed as he grinned 
And he grinned a good deal, as a man well-satisfied with 
himself and life in general. He found a seat in the corner 
of the annexe and sat down. The slim waitress came 
along with her heavily laden tray. She glanced round and 
her eye alighted on the young man. Her face betrayed no 
recognition, but she put the tray down on the marble slab 
of an adjoining table with an abrupt bump. She said 
“ Sorry l ” and as she handed plates and cups round she 

“ Fried plaice, sir ? Thank you, sir. Coffee, madam. 
Thank you, madam. Two hard-boiled eggs, sir ? Thank 
you, sir,” and so on till the table was served. Then she 
passed on to the table where the young man sat. She still 
carried her tray, for there were two people there waiting 
to be served. She put down her tray again and said : 

“ Tea, roll and butter, madam ? Thank you, madam. 
Cold roast beef, sir ? Thank you, sir.” 

The young man looked at her and grinned, but she did 
not look at him. Her lips were tight and drawn, and pale. 
A woman at the table exclaimed ’. 

“ Are my kidneys never coming ? ” 

The young man said : “ Well, Florrie ? 

Without looking at him she said : “ What do you want 
to eat ? ” To the lady she said : “ Your kidneys will be 

ready in two minutes, madam. 

The young man, a little sheepish at his reception, said 

quietly: _ „ „ 

Oh, well. I’ll have some cold tongue and coltee. 

“ Large or small ? ” 

“ Large.” 


OVERHEARD 


8 


She moved away with her tray, collecting orders as she 
went, whilst the young man picked his splendid teeth with 
a tram ticket. After an interval she returned. The weary 
lines of her face seemed to be concealing the fires of tremu¬ 
lous emotion. She placed the kidneys in front of the lady, 
and the coffee and tongue in front of the young man. 
Quite mechanically she repeated : 

“ Large coffee and tongue, sir ? Thank you, sir.” 

She took three more orders, and again vanished. 

The young man devoured his tongue and coffee in silence. 
The grin on his face became sardonic. It was as though 
he were saying to himself: “Oh, well, I don’t care.” 
More people went out and fewer came in. The time was 
rapidly approaching that sparse half hour or so that is too 
late for lunch and too early for tea. The lady finished her 
kidneys, powdered her nose, and departed. The slim 
waitress was less occupied. She drifted up and down, her 
tense pale face expressing nothing. There was only one 
other person at the young man’s table, a man at the further 
end reading an evening paper. At last she came to him. 
Bending over a cruet which she pretended to be adjusting 
she whispered hoarsely: 

“ Oh, why didn’t you come last night ? ” 

The uneasy grin flittered across the young man’s face. 
He answered in the same key : 

“ I couldn’t. I couldn’t get away.” 

“ What were you doing ? Spending the evening with 
Lily ? ” 

“No. I swear I wasn’t.” 

“ What then ? ” 

“ I had to go and see my uncle-” 

“Miss Harrison, there’s a customer over there asking 
for stewed prunes and rice.” It was a tall angular 
manageress, in a black frock, speaking. 

“ Coming, madam.” 

The mission in search of stewed prunes and rice occupied 


OVERHEARD 


some time. And further time was wasted by a customer 
who said that his bill was wrong. It was quite true, bhe 
had charged eightpence-halfpenny instead of sevenpence- 
halfpenny for sardines on toast. The man with the news¬ 
paper disappeared. There was no one else at the young 
man’s table. Once again she leant over^the cruet. 

“ You don’t love her, do you, Harry ? ” 

The young man laughed self-consciously. 

“ Lord, no. I wanted to tell you, Florne. J ve had a 
bit of luck. My uncle’s coming to the rescue.” 

“ How do you mean ? ” 

“ He’s paying off that debt. And he’s going to pay my 
fare to Canada.” 

“ Canada 1 ” , . , r++ . 

She caught her breath, and scraped crumbs into a little 

pile with the end of a knife. “ Canada 1 but you 

“ I’m going to start all over again.” 

“ But don’t you want me to go to Canada with yer . 

“ You ? How could you ? ” 

“ I could work my way out—stewardess or something. 
I’d go with You’re not going to marry Lily, are you, 


Harry ? ” 

“ Not likely.” r , , T 

“ She’s not good enough for you, Harry. Oh, God ! I 
believe it’s her what got you going wrong, mixing with all 
them racing chaps and that 

“You’re too good for me, Florrie.” , 

“ Hi, miss, order me a boiled egg. And look here, tell 
’em it’s to be soft—not more than three minutes.” 


“ Yes sir.” 

While she was away the young man fidgetted with his 
moustache. He looked like a man eager to escape from 
an awkward situation. He gave a jaunty thrust to his 
hat, which he had never removed. He drew things on the 
marble table top with a spoon. At last she came back. 

“ You say I’m too good for you, Harry. P’raps m some 


OVERHEARD 


5 


ways I am. I go straight, in any case, which is more than 
yon ever do. But I don’t put much stock by that. I love 
yer, and that’s enough for me. I’m willing to go with 


“ Perhaps one day when I get on-” 

“ Oh, go on ! Once you get out there, and you’ll forget 
all about me. You never did reely love me—and now that 

Lil y—■" 

“ I tell you there’s nothing in it about Lily.” 

“ Oh, don’t let her lead you astray, Harry.” 

“ What do you mean—lead me astray ? ” 

The tall manageress swept down the room. 

“ Now then. Miss Harrison, get themTcruets together. 
We shall have the teas coming in soon.” 

“ Yes, madam.” 

The room seemed to get dimmer. A queer^party of 
country people strolled in, the kind of people who demand 
eggs and bacon at a quarter past three in the afternoon. 
What meal is this ? breakfast, lunch or high tea ? What 
did it matter ? Outside was the roar of tr Jfic ; inside the 
low hum of desultory talk. A big man was leaning across 
the table, shaking a fat finger in the face of a doleful 
individual with a sandy beard, and declaiming : 

“ I ses to ’im that’s not the right and proper way to lay 
a floor joist.” 

Someone wanted to know the right time, and someone 
else the best way to get to the Horticultural Show. She 
thought suddenly of flowers . . . great masses of prize 
blossoms, purple, blue, and white, and the perfume of them 
and the memories. . . . 

“ What fish have you got to-day, miss ? ” 

“ Only filletted plaice left, sir.” 

The young man was getting up, and stretching himself 
indolently. She left an order and went across to him. 
With a little catch in her voice she said : 

“ You’re going then ? ” 





OVERHEARD 


“ Yes. What’s the good ? ” 

“ When will I see you ? ” 

“ I’m sailing Saturday.” 

“ Saturday! That’s only four days. You’ll see me 
before you go ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” the young man whispered unconvincingly. 

“ I’ll either drop you a line or call in.” 

“ Promise ? ” 

The promise was give in the same key. 

“ You’ll want your bill. It comes to tenpence-half- 
penny.” 

“ Thanks, so long, old girl.” 

There was a break in the wall half-way down the room. 
When he reached it they were comparatively alone for a 
brief moment. She said fiercely : 

11 Harry, I’ve loved yer all these years. Don t be cruel. 
When I was—when I was younger you did care for me a 
tiny bit. I’ve worked my fingers out for you. I’ve given 
you my savings. I wasn’t bad-looking once before I came 
into this business. It hasn’t done me any good. I get 
tired. The days seem long. You won’t—you won’t——” 
The man holding forth indignantly about the right way 
to lay floor joists, called out: 

“ Hi, miss, bring me another cup of corfee.” 

“ Yes, sir. Coming sir. . . . You won’t-” 

The young man’s grin struggled desperately to assert 
itself. He mumbled something like : 

“ There, there. It’ll be all right. You’ll see. 

He walked self-consciously to the pay-desk. She went 
to collect her tray. Down below in the smoke-room could 
be heard the sound of youths noisily playing dominoes and 
laughing. “ There’s nothing to laugh about,” she thought 
at random. The tray was filled with soiled plates, and 
cups and saucers, egg shells and sausage skins. When she 
emerged once more into the main room, the young man had 
gone. She vanished with her tray and in a few minutes 


OVERHEARD 


7 

returned with it re-laden. She went to the table where 
the country people were. 

" Eggs and bacon, madam ? Thank you, madam. 
Eggs and bacon, sir ? Thank you, sir. Eggs and bacon 
miss ? Thank you, miss/' 

The man of the floor joists bawled out: 

“ Hi, have you got my corfee, miss ? ” 

She looked at him a little startled, the vexatious expres¬ 
sion of one who takes'a pride in work and is found wanting. 
She said: 

“ I'm sorry, sir. I forgot. I'll go and fetch it." 

“ Damn these waitresses ! " growled the man of the 
floor joists. 






























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V 




















































•s. - 































THE FALL 


The city of Bordeaux is a city of broad avenues, open 
spaces, big blocks of commercial buildings, narrow alleys 
leading down to congested docks, great wealth, great 
poverty, great industry. It has a character widely differing 
from any other French city. Broadly speaking, it is a 
hard-working, thriving, sober place. People do not go 
there for pleasure ; they go there to trade. Nevertheless 
as in the case of all large cities, especially when they 
happen to be ports, it is watered by a continuous social 
flux that is anything but hard-working, thriving or sober. 
It holds out endless temptation to the adventurer, the 
thief and the garrotter. The wine industry and the bourse 
attract the gambler and the speculator. The constant 
inflow of ingenuous sailors, blue-eyed and bewildered, who 
draw their pay and get lost in the mazes of the west side, 
attract the attentions of the more malignant characters. 
The caf6s and cabarets abound with mysterious individuals, 
willing and anxious to introduce the new-comer to the most 
delectable and special attractions. 

On the whole, Bordeaux is neither better nor worse than 
her sister cities of the South. Less sophisticated than 
Marseilles, she seems somehow more independent. Further 
removed from the nerve centres of France, she contrives 
to lead a life of her own. The depressing Landes country 
does not get on her nerves. She re-acts to it. And there 
is always Biarritz, and St. Jean de Luz and the gay little 
luxury towns within easy train journey. And there is 
the Spanish border and untracked regions of the Pyrenees 
—easily accessible places for the lady or gentleman who 
b 9 


THE FALL 


10 

suddenly finds that the only people desirous of his or her 
company are the very efficient gendarmerie de Bordeaux. 

Max Renault, alias Anton Sachs, alias Jules Destourney, 
was one individual who more than once found getting over 
the border at Irun, disguised as an old priest, a useful means 
of evading the just retribution of the law. On the second 
occasion he was away two years, wandering about the 
north coast of Spain. During that time his experiences 
must have been unenviable. He knew little Spanish and 
no Basque. The people he moved amongst were mo:stiy 
beggars themselves, or poor fishing-folk, living from hand 
to mouth. He begged what he could, stole what he could 
but the conditions of fife were very hard. He made himself 
a weird instrument, a kind of piccolo, put of a cane stem. 
This he played somewhat unconvincingly outside cafes 
and eating-houses; but the Spaniards and Basques are 
musicians themselves, and his awards were negligible. 

Once he stole a donkey, drove it into the hills, and sold 
it to some gypsies for a trifling sum. He travelled far 
afield after that, put up at an inn and drank much brandy. 

4nd that night he dreamt about falling. We ah have 
our pet nightmares, and Jules’ pet nightmare concerned 
falling. It was horrible. He never actually fell, but he 
was always just on the point of falling from some great 
height. Sometimes he would be on the roof of a very high 
building, looking down into the street below just losing 
his balance. On other occasions he would be seated on the 
front row of a gallery, very, very high up in a theatre. 
There was no rail in front of him. His knees were giving 
way. The floor below was attracting him. Sometimes 
he would be peering over the edge of an enormous precipice, 
lying on his face and looking down at the rocks beneath. 
He would try and edge away, but an overwhelming power 
drew him forward. At such moments he would try to 
scream, and be unable to. After an endless struggle he 
would awaken with a start, and find himsef clutching the 


THE FALL 


11 


bedclothes, making horrible noises in his chest, and his 
brow would be clammy with perspiration. 

During those two years he did many reprehensible and 
desperate actions, but he always managed to escape detect¬ 
ion. At the end of that time he found himself one day at 
the little fishing village of Fuenterrabia, looking wistfully 
across the bay at his beloved France. Surely the time was 
ripe for return. He had changed much in those two years. 
The police must have been very busy with other fugitive 
gentlemen. He though longingly of Bordeaux, with its 
rich merchants and stupid sailors, its familiar cafes and 
well-cooked food. Yes, he was a desperate man. Some¬ 
how or other he would return there. 

Whilst gazing across the sea, he became suddenly aware 
of someone approaching him. Instantly alert, and prepared 
for flight, Jules turned. One glance satisfied him that the 
man was an English tourist. One of those absurd, comic 
Englishmen, as drawn in the French journals. Elderly, 
with drooping moustaches, rather fat, in a check suit with 
baggy knickerbockers and stockings, and thick brown 
boots. Round his shoulder was slung a leather strap with 
field glasses, and in his hand he carried a camera. The 
Englishman spoke to him in broken Spanish, but he seemed 
to know less Spanish than Jules. Jules replied in French, 
which the Englishman spoke tolerably well. He wanted 
to know how far it was to Pasaques across the hills, how 
long it would take to get there and what sort of place it 
was. But yes, of course, Jules smiled ingratiatingly, was 
he not himself a professional guide ? 

It would take perhaps two hours, two hours and a half to 
Pasaques. There was no road. It could only be found 
by one accustomed to the mountain path. An enchanting 
place—Pasaques, where the famous Victor Hugo lived for 
some time, and there was a cafe there built over the bay 
with passion flowers in profusion growing over the pergola. 
And the patron would draw you up oysters straight from 


12 


THE FALL 


the river bed in a basket—an enchanting place ! Why, yes, 
he would guide the distinguished visitor that very afternoon 
and they would return in time for the Englishman s dinner 
at the Hotel Miramar. Excellent! # 

As they picked their way up the mountain path that 
afternoon, Jules was constantly thinking of Bordeaux. 
It was a steep climb. He was quite surprised that the 
fat, elderly Englishman stood it so well. Surprised—and 

^Bordeaux ? He wondered whether old Madame Lachaise 
still kept that little comestible establishment in the Place 
Duquesne. There were friends who would never give 
him away. There was no one to fear except the police. 
Inspector Tolozan ? Curse fate ! Spit on all these comfort¬ 
able people to whom everything seemed to go right. This 
fat, prosperous Englishman! 

Once on a broken plateau they passed an ox-cart laden 
with ferns and a peasant in a blue blouse. They passed 
no one else in a two hours’ walk. They were cut right off 
from the world, amidst boulders of rocks, shrubs, thick 
masses of fern, distant peaks, some snow-clad. 

“ Bella vista, monsieur 1 ” said Jules, pointing across an 
opening in the hills. The Englishman leant forward and 
looked in the direction Jules’ stick was pointing. Bella 
vista, indeed! There was a sadden quick movement, and 
a knife was driven clean and truly between the Englishman s 

shoulder blades. ~ , ,, 

When the convulsions had ceased, Jules dragged the 
heavy body into a thick, high clump of ferns, and calmly 
went through the pockets. There were a lot of papers 
that annoyed him intensely, passports, letters of credit, 
bills, cheque book, things denoting wealth but quite un- 
negotiable. Nevertheless, Jules had little cause to complain. 
There were Spanish, French and English notes. There 
was a gold watch and chain, a gold cigarette case, loose 
silver and various light trifles. He flung the camera away 


THE FALL 


13 


and also the case of field-glasses, toofcompromising articles 
to be seen with—but stuffed the field-glasses into his breast 
pocket. Then he walked on hurriedly for half a mile, 
crawled under a dwarf oak-tree and counted the spoil. He 
rapidly added up the notes, calculated the total in francs, 
allowing for the rate of exchange, and the probable selling 
value of the watch and chain, etc., in his own market. He 
was the sudden possessor of approximately nine thousand 
francs ! 

He cleaned up his hands on some damp moss, buried the 
knife deep in the earth and covered that with moss and 
stones, and set out for San Sebastian. 

Fortune at last had smiled upon him. He gave no further 
thought to the ridiculous Englishman, except as an inert 
piece of matter that might be compromising under certain 
circumstances. 

He arrived in San Sebastian after dark, weary and 
footsore. He knew the town well, and he made for a 
humble quarter, where food and lodging would be procur¬ 
able. He ate heartily, drank good red wine and much 
brandy until he fell into a heavy torpid sleep. He had, 
however, taken the precaution beforehand to see that he 
secured a room in the lodging with a door that locked. 
Fortune and security at last! Bordeaux at last! 

He swung out into a glorious, rose-hued dreamland of 
happiness, only to find himself, after an interval of time, 
clinging to the flat surface of an enormous stone column 
above a square. The column seemed to be swaying in the 
wind. Down below tiny figures were just perceptible on 
the pavement. The old horror again possessed him. He 
was bound to fall—hundreds of feet—into that terrifying 
void below. It did not occur to him to wonder how he 
had got there. The fact that he was there was sufficient. 
If only the dread thing would keep still! If only there were 
any means of descending ! But—no, he was on a kind of 
large projecting capital. The column beneath was narrower. 


14 


THE FALL 


He’peered lover the edge, and saw the narrowing flutes 
of the column vanishing into perspective, lost amongst 
the stone base hundreds of feet below. There was nothing 
at all to cling to. He was falling 1 He screamed, but the 
screams were stifled in his throat. This way ! That way ! 
Now he was off!. . . Oh, God ! He was hanging over— 
the edge of the bed, those choked, ugly noises coming from 

his chest. „ , TT 

Ah, thank God ! All a dream, all a dream ! He would 
not sleep again that night. He sat up, drank some water, 
lighted the candle, counted his weath all over again, lay 
there, inert and watchful, till the light of dawn crept between 
the crevices of the shabby curtain. Then he slept quite 
placidly for several hours. 

The sun was shining on San Sebastian when he went out. 
Everything was normal and gay. Along the front tamarisk 
trees with their soft, feathery outlines, blended into the 
warm haze above the bay. Women in black mantillas 
passed by him, and he did not resent the fact that their 
glances were not for him. He wandered about the town, 
and bought a ready-made suit, a shirt, a scarf, a new Basque 
cap and some canvas shoes. Then. he returned to his 
lodgings, changed his clothes, paid his bill, took the old 
clothes away with him tied up in a paper parcel, and walked 

to the station. _ 1 . . . ri 

In two days’ time he arrived in Bordeaux, looking like 
a respectable Spanish workman. His hair had turned 
grey during those two years, and he had grown a moustache 
and a little stubbly beard. He made his way to the Place 
Duquesne, crept stealthily up the stairs of number seventeen 
and gave three slow taps on the door, the last tap being 
louder than the first. The door was opened a few inches, 
and there was a short interval of inspection, and then a 
voice exclaimed: 

“ Name of God ! It’s the Jackal! ” 

He was admitted. The room was occupied by two men. 


THE FALL 


15 


One was a thick-set, malevolent-looking, middle-aged man, * 
with very dark eyes and a long scar running from just below 
the ear to the middle of the throat. The other was a 
frowsy old man, with swivel eyes, impossible to focus. It 
was the younger one who had admitted him. He turned 
to the elder, and said : 

“ Do you hear, Uncle Sem ? It’s the Jackal! ” 

The old man appeared to be searching the ceiling. He 
muttered: 

“ The Jackal—eh ! Where have you been, my brave 
Jackal, all these years ? ” 

“ Over the border, Uncle Sem.” 

“ What have you come back for, fool ? To compromise 
us ? Don’t you know it’s the Widow for you if they catch 
you ? ” 

“ I was bored. Uncle Sem. I had to come back. I 
was lonely—” 

“ Imbecile ! ” 

“ He’s all right,” interjected the younger man, known 
as La Tonnerre. “ Look at him, uncle! His mother 
wouldn’t know her darling boy. The Jackal was always a 
good workman, Uncle Sem. How have the dice fallen, 
old boy ? ” 

“ Badly,” answered Jules. “ Pigs and stones. There’s 
not a sou to be scratched from the vile, evil-smelling swine. 
Nothing came my way, until last week, when a fool of an 
Englishman fell into my mouth. See here ! ” 

And he produced the field-glasses, the gold watch and 
chain, the cigarette-case and the other trifles. The older 
man’s eyes regarded the objects obliquely. 

“ Any money ? ” 

“ Only a few francs.” 

“ Urn ! ” grunted Uncle Sem, suspiciously. “ Travelling 
Englishmen usually carry more than a few francs upon 
them, especially when they boast such finery as 
this.” 


16 


THE FALL 


“ Letters of credit, cheque books, if they're any good to 
you, Uncle ! ” 

“ Um. Let’s have a glance. Where's the case to the 
field-glasses ? ” 

“ I threw it away.” 

“ Imbecile l A Zeiss too.” 

Whilst the old man was examining the watch and 
cigarette-case, Jules inquired of La Tonnerre concerning 
their mutual acquaintances. 

“ Where is Barouche ? ” 

“ Barouche! He is spending a long vacation out in 
Cochin China. There was an unfortunate affair with the 
cashier of a bank at Bayonne. Clumsy work ! ” 

“ And Anton ? ” 

“ Dead. He died quietly one morning at dawn. The 
blade was too quick for him ! ” 

“ Lisette ? ” 

“ No one has seen her since you left. She was last seen 
walking on the quays looking into the water.” 

“ Toni Hecht ? ” 

<( They have sent him back to Silesia. They did not 
like his face.” 

“ Gabriel Foret ? ” 

“ Yes, he is still working. But he becomes foolish. 
Women"and absinthe do not agree with him. Labori died 
in the infirmary. There is no one left of our old company 
except Uncle Sem and myself. You are welcome, Jules. 
We want men of intellect and go.” 

It was not an inspiriting record. Jules felt a craving to 
escape from it all. He had been drawn back to Bordeaux 
by the nostalgia of old associations. He liked the place, 
the kind of food to be procured there, familiar places and 
people. But the life of crime terrified him. It was not 
conscience which troubled him. It was just the physical 
dread of—falling. It was in his blood that somewhere, at 
some time, in the prosecution of his nefarious craft, he 


THE FALL 


17 


would fall. The nightmare would materialize. And yet 
what was he to do ? About his person he had concealed 
eight thousand francs. From the sale of the field-glasses, 
the watch and cigarette-case, he would be lucky if he got 
another two hundred. This was wealth, comfort and 
security for a few months. And then what ? He could 
not afford to go back on his only two pals. 

The old man was saying : 

. “ Here, I will see what I can do with the watch and 
cigarette-case. You take these glasses, Jackal, and try 
your luck on the East side. You were an idiot to have 
taken these out of their case/' 

“ The case isn’t of much value, Uncle Sem. And it was 
clumsy, with a long leather strap attachment, difficult to 
conceal.” 

Uncle Sem said nothing, but he blinked vacantly at the 
ceiling, stood up, and shuffled towards the door. 

“ He’s a marvel! ” exclaimed La Tonnerre, when the 
old man had gone. “ He must be seventy-two, and he has 
never made a slip. The police watch him like cats, and 
they’ve never sprung within a metre of him. I believe he 
could cast his shadow into the face of the sun.” 

Jules sighed. “ Let’s go and eat,” he said. “ I have a 
few francs, and that vile Spanish food wants forgetting.” 

They repaired to a quiet restaurant, of which the patron 
was a good fellow, not too inquisitive or squeamish about 
his guests. And they did themselves well. Soup, a 
bouillabaise, tripe stewed in oil with braised Spanish onions, 
Rockfort and radishes, and two bottles of good Burgundy. 
Oh, it was glorious to be back in Bordeaux ! 

And Jules kept on saying to himself : 

“ I mustn’t talk too much. I mustn’t let on to La 
Tonnerre that I have eight thousand.” 

There is a fascination about spending freely almost as 
intoxicating as any alcoholic material which may be the 
product of this action. Once he thought at random : 


18 THE FALL 

“ Why, I've only got to sell those field-glasses to make 
enough to pay for this luncheon. 

La Tonnere indeed was not unduly aroused. They both 
belonged to the school which taught that the great thing 
in life was to eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow 
Ah i lots of nasty, unpleasant episodes might happen 
to-morrow. One might fall for instance. Clambering 
about on dangerous peaks there was always that sickening 
attraction—the law of gravitation. Bah ! Another glass, 
old boy ! Glorious to be back in Bordeaux. 

The docks were alive with dear familiar sights—stately 
liners, the black hulls of old sailing ships, weather-battered 
smoke-stacks of tramps. There was the delicious odour 
of tar, oil, hemp, brine and the chestnut braziers on the 
quays. There were the familiar figures, wharfingers in 
blue blouses, foreign sailors, fat old fishwives with their 
booths, women selling flowers, stockings and gingerbread, 
port officials fussily conscious of their gold trimmings. 
This was the place to live in, to lose oneself m No one 
took any particular stock of this respectable-looking man. 
What was he ? a mechanic of some sort ? a small shop- 
keeper ? a ship’s cook ? Who cared ? . , 

Having parted from La Tonnere, who stated that he had 
to go and claim some “ commission ” that was due to him, 
Jules wandered luxuriously eastward. It was early 
afternoon and the sun was pleasantly hot. He walked up 
the Rue Fondaudege and then took two turnings, sharp to 
the left, then to the left again. He came to a narrow 
middle-class street of shops. Near the end of the street 
he stopped in front of an establishment, which bore the 
name of Francis Mossel. He entered and produced the 
field-glasses. A rather bored young clerk said. res, 

what is it ? ” , ^ ,, 

“ Do you want to buy some field-glasses, monsieur . 

“ Field-glasses \ ” exclaimed the young man in a tone 
that implied that field-glasses were the very last thing that 


THE FALL 


19 


his employer would ever dream of buying. Nevertheless 
he took them in his hand and examined them. 

“ Where is the case ? ” he asked. 

“ The case is lost l 

The young man’s face expressed bored indignation. 
However, he disappeared behind a wooden partition with 
the glasses. In two or three minutes an elderly Jew came 
in with the young man. He was wearing thick spectacles 
and a black skull cap. He looked hard at Jules and said : 

“ Where did you get these glasses from ? ” 

“ They belonged to my brother, monsieur, who died.” 

The Jew looked closely at Jules’ face, his clothes, his 
shoes and his cap. He made no attempt to conceal his 
suspicion. 

“ Where is the case ? ” 

“ There wasn’t a case. My brother must have lost it, 
monsieur.” 

“ When did your brother die ? ” 

“ Last year, monsieur.” 

“ This is a pair of new Zeiss field-glasses.” 

Jules flushed. What the devil business was it of the 
Jew when or where his brother died ? Why didn’t he 
hurry up and give him the money! Monsieur Mossel 
seemed to be meditating. He muttered to himself: 

“ Curious ... a new pair of Zeiss field-glasses without 
a case.” 

Looking at Jules once more, he said in a melancholy 
voice : 

“ How much do you want for them ? ” 

“ Four hundred francs, monsieur.” 

The old Jew turned to his assistant with an expression 
clearly conveying the fact that he had long since given up 
being surprised at the insolent and extortionate demands 
made to him in his profession. He turned the glasses over 
and over and examined them more thoroughly. At last 
he said: 


20 THE FALL 

“ HI tell you what I'll do. I’ll give you twenty-seven 
francs for them.” 

It was Jules’ turn to express clearly that he had given up 
being surprised at the preposterous offers one was to expect 
from these money-lenders. He answered without hesita¬ 
tion : 

“ One hundred.” 

“Twenty-eight.” 

What was the use ? He felt a wild desire to be rid of 
the whole transaction. The atmosphere of this poky, 
furtive office frightened him. He mumbled : 

“ Oh ! . . . well-” 

“ Leave the glasses here and come in later at half-past 
five, and you shall have the money. You must sign a 
written declaration.” 

Why? He didn’t like this aspect of it at all. But 
something told him to clear out of that place at the earliest 
possible moment. A few minutes later he was thankful 
for this subconscious warning. He had just crossed the 
street when he saw an elderly distinguished-looking man 
turn the corner and saunter casually into Mons. Mossel s 
shop. It was the last person in Bordeaux he was desirous 
of meeting—Inspector Tolozan, chief of the gendarmerie de 
Bordeaux. 

He never went back for his twenty-eight francs. On the 
other hand, he could not bring himself to tell the true story 
to Uncle Sem and LaTonnerre. He said he had sold the 
glasses for ninety francs, and he shared the spoil with them 
loyally. Uncle Sem declared that he was only able to 
raise two hundred and forty francs on the watch and 
cigarette-case. This was also divided. 

Jules slept in an attic in the same house in the Place 
Duquesne where his two companions resided. He con¬ 
tinued to lead a life of indolence and luxury. 

At the end of a few weeks, however, he began to realize 
that there was something queer happening to him. His 


THE FALL 


21 


health was not all that could be desired. The fact was, 
that the sudden spasm of luxurious living, after the two 
years of semi-starvation, was seriously affecting his diges¬ 
tion. He suffered from attacks of vertigo. Lying in his 
attic at night, he would have an abrupt vision of the court¬ 
yard below. Some power seemed to compel him to get 
out of bed and go to the window and look down. He would 
stand there, clutching the window frame, his face bathed in 
cold sweat. The terror was unendurable. After two or 
three of these experiences he gave up the attic. He managed 
to secure a dingy room in the basement of the house next 
door. 

So far as the prosecution of his criminal practices was 
concerned, he was entirely inactive. He had lost his nerve. 
He made up elaborate stories to Uncle Sem and La Ton- 
nerre of exploits about purse-snatching and confidence 
tricks. He even handed them the money as a share of the 
spoils, anything to buy peace. His small fortune would not 
last long at this rate. 

Once he dreamt he was on top of a lighthouse, out at 
sea. A high wind was blowing, and he was clutching his 
few remaining notes and trying to hang on to the smooth 
stone surface. A sudden, fiercer gust came and carried 
the notes away. He looked over the edge, and saw the 
notes fluttering on the surface of an angry sea, a hundred 
feet below him. Again he tried to scream. . . . 

It was Uncle Sem’s discovery—the fat Dutch ship-master, 
who went nightly to a little cafe in the Rue Muyens and got 
drunk. He appeared to have money. It was believed 
that he had on his person the cash to pay off a ship’s 
company that was expected from Rio. 

“ Here is a neat little game we might play together,” 
said Uncle Sem. 

Jules shivered, but he knew there was no escape. They 
couldn’t understand, these two ; they couldn’t understand 
this fear of falling. On a certain night he found himself 


22 


THE FALL 


entering the Cafe des Etoiles. Uncle Sem was whisper¬ 
ing: 

“This is the table” . TT 1 _ 

They sat down, and ordered two anisettes. Uncle bem 
was very garrulous. After a little while the fat Dutch¬ 
man entered. He glowered at them, but took his usual 
corner seat, and ordered Schnappes. Uncle Sem bowed to 
him very politely, and continued to talk to Jules. After a 
few more glasses of Schnappes it was not difficult to engage 
the Dutchman in conversation, in spite of his villainous 
French. They discussed all kinds of subjects, and Uncle 
Sem was most entertaining and hospitable, ordering 
innumerable rounds of drinks. It was getting late, when 
La Tonnerre entered the cafe. He was very smartly 
dressed. He looked round the room, then, approaching 
Uncle Sem, he said diffidently : 

“ May I occupy this seat, monsieur ? ’ 

“ But certainly/’ replied Uncle Sem. 

In a few minutes La Tonnerre was drawn into the con¬ 
versation, and somehow or other it got round to the Dutch 
East Indies. La Tonnerre said that he had often touched 
at Sumatra, when a seafaring man. Curiously enough, 
Uncle Sem, according to his own account, had once been 
manager of a tea plantation at Tebing Tinggi. Helped 
by a nudge, Jules said he knew all the islands intimately. 
This might have been all very well, except for the fact that 
Uncle Sem referred to Tebing Tinggi as being on the north¬ 
east coast of Sumatra. 

“ Tebing Tinggi! ” exclaimed the Dutchman. Why, 
it is in the interior, one hundred and thirty miles west of 
Pelembeng! ” 

It is invariably about insignificant trifles that men lose 
their tempers. The argument became heated. 

“ Considering I lived there for two years! ” cried the 
Dutchman, banging his fist down on the table. 

Uncle Sem was equally emphatic and so was La Ton- 


THE FALL 


23 


nerre, who insisted that Tebing Tinggi was in the north. 
The argument became more and more acrimonious. At 
last Uncle Sem said : 

“ I tell you what, gentlemen. I’m willing to bet. I 
suggest we put up a hundred francs each. We all put the 
notes right down here on the table. Then we each in turn 
draw a plan of the island, indicating the position of Tebing 
Tinggi. That being done, we borrow our patron’s atlas. 
I know he has one. And we compare. The one who has 
drawn the most accurate plan gets the lot.” 

“ Done ! ” roared the Dutchman. “ On one condition.” 

" What’s that ? ” 

“ That we make it two hundred francs.” 

“ I agree,” said Uncle Sem. 

“ Agreed,” said La Tonnerre. 

“ Yes, I agree also,” said Jules faintly. 

The Dutchman produced a fat pocket-book. He took 
out two hundred francs and put the notes down on the 
table. The others followed suit. They drew lots for the 
order of performance. La Tonnerre drew the first plan. 
He picked up a menu card and carefully drew a plan of the 
island on the back, indicating the position of the disputed 
town. The Dutchman, who had drawn second place, 
snorted with contempt and was in a fever to get to work. 
Directly La Tonnerre had finished, he snatched up the 
pencil and pored over the back of another menu card. Very 
laboriously, with the tip of his fat tongue pouting between 
his lips, he made a careful and exact plan of the island. 
When he was half way through, La Tonnerre rose and said : 

“ I’ll get the atlas in the meantime.” 

He got up and walked out. The Dutchman had nearly 
finished his drawing, when Uncle Sem exclaimed: 

“ My God ! ” 

“ What’s the matter ? ” growled the Dutchman. 

“ The notes! the notes ! That fellow has taken the 
the notes I ” 


24 


THE FALL 


The Dutchman’s eyes bulged. He glared round the 
table gasped, put his hand in his breast pocket. 

“God in Heaven 1” he wailed. "My pocket-book! 
my pocket-book ! Which way did he go ? ” ^ 

“ Good God 1 he’s taken my pocket-book too ! ” said 
Uncle Sem. " Curse him ! the thief! the dirty thief ! 

I believe he went out this way.” 

And he jumped up and dashed to the door. The Dutch¬ 
man dashed after him. Jules was left alone. The thing 
had happened so quickly that the other occupants of the 
cafe had not time to take it all in. Besides, in that part 
of the world they are accustomed to quarrelling and 
gambling among seafaring men. It is advisable some¬ 
times not to be too curious. A waiter came up to Jules 
and said: 

“ What’s the matter ? ” 

“ That stranger who came in went off with my pal’s 
notes,” he replied. 

The waiter shrugged his shoulders. Jules got up to 
follow the others. Just as he rose his eye was attracted 
by a face on the other side of the room. It seemed vaguely 
familiar. It was the face of a young man, talking to a 
girl. What was disturbing was that the young man was 
staring at him and quite patently talking to the girl about 
him. As he reached the door, he remembered in a flash 
that it was the young clerk to the Jew who had bought 
the field-glasses. Once through the door, Jules ran as 
fast as he could until he had put several abrupt turnings 
between himself and that sinister cafe. He was terribly 
frightened. His heart was beating against his ribs. The 
appearance of the young clerk from the pawnbroker s 
shop seemed to be a portentous climax to the sordid adven¬ 
ture. He must keep clear of that side of the river for 
some time. He went a long way round, and avoiding 
the Pont de Bordeaux, crossed^the river by the railway 
bridge. His teeth were chattering when he rejoined the 


THE FALL 


25 


other two in that crazy room in the Place Duquesne. He 
found Uncle Sem feeding a fat moulting canary with lumps 
of sugar, and calling it endearing names. 

La Tonnerre was stretched luxuriously on an old couch, 
eating sardines out of a tin. The evening had been a 
great success. The Dutchman’s wallet had contained 
seven thousand three hundred francs. 

“ Nevertheless,” said La Tonnerre, “ Uncle Sem thinks 
a little change of scenery might do us all good. Scatter, 
Uncle, eh ? Wait till the Dutch pig has had to return to 
his greasy country. I’m for the South, I. I know a pair 
of dark eyes at St. Jean de Luz that always welcome me, 
especially when I can slap my pockets, and throw a franc 
or two around at random.” 

“ I have an urgent affair to attend to in Paris, my chil¬ 
dren,” said Uncle Sem. “ Some dear relations I must 
visit. They miss me dreadfully.” 

One eye appeared to be on the door, whilst the other 
was searching the opposite curtain-pole. “ Tweet! tweet! 
There’s a little darling 1 Tweet! tweet! ” 

Jules sat morosely apart. Where should he go ? What 
should he do ? 

“ Wherever I go I know that—the fall is not far off,” 
he thought. The fall! He was high up now, and there 
was that courtyard down below. Oh ! . . .He stood up 
and pretended to yawn carelessly. 

“ I shall stay in Bordeaux,” he said, and stumbled towards 
the door. 

“ Imbecile! ” hissed Uncle Sem, and then he appeared to 
chuckle with malevolent glee. “Tweet! tweet! There’s 
a dear little bird for you I ” 

It was coming nearer. Ice-cold hands were clutching at 
his ribs, drawing him up, preparing to hurl him down. 

Three days had elapsed since Uncle Sem and La Tonnerre 
vanished from Bordeaux. His pockets were well-lined 
with notes and silver. He drifted from restaurant to 
c 


20 THE FALL 

restaurant, from cafe' to caf < 5 ,'consuming quantities of 
rich food and wines, which gave him no satisfaction. 
The richer the repast the more violent the reaction, i a 
morning he had seen the young clerk again with the saine 
girl. They were going out of a cafe where he was seated. 
He thought the girl looked at him, but he could not be 

certain. He felt too apathetic to leave. He sat there drink¬ 
ing absinthe, and watching the door. He was waiting. 

But no one came, and after a while he went out. All 
the afternoon he wandered about the docks. The fam¬ 
iliar scenes had lost their attraction. He felt impatient 
for the crisis. This could not go on indefinitely. It was 
now early evening. He was seated at another caf£ m 
the Rue Maille. The hour when%ne];dmes. But no, he 
had no desire for food. Even the sight of a glass of absinthe 
nauseated him. The thing was too near. 

The caf 6 was dimly lighted and almost deserted. He 
was still watching the door. A few seafaring men passed 
in and out. Soon it would be quite dark. Why didn t 
they light up the cafe ? Lights ... 

Two sturdily-built men entered together. One had a 
paper in his hand. They glanced round, whispered, 
and came up to him. The one with the paper, said: 

“ Monsieur Max Renault, alias Anton Sachs, alias Jules 

Destourney ? ” . ^ , 

Jules did not answer. He lay m a heap, staring at the 

well-filled glass. 

“ We hold here a warrant for your arrest. 

Well, what was it ? The Dutchman, or ? 

« you are arrested on an extradition warrant from the 
Spanish Government, charged with the murder of an 
Englishman, John Watson, five kilos from Fuenterrabia, 
on the afternoon of the 17 th August. ^ Have you anything 

to say? Anything you say will-■” _ 

The scream came at last. There were none of the choked 
gaspingsofadream. The fuddled mists cleared away. He 


THE FALL 


27 


experienced a moment crowded with the pellucid vision of 
the onrush of a huge steel knife ! It had come—the 
ghastly end. Then the room swung into darkness, filled 
with shouts and screams—his own. Followed a period of 
impenetrable blackness, discomfort, and terror. Frightened 
to focus. . . . But it came at last. Where was this ? 
Where was it ? He was lying in a bed. A dim light at the 
other end of the room revealed other beds—five of them. 
A figure in blue was walking by, clanking a bunch of keys. 
The air seemed to be filled with a pornographic roar. 
Snoring. The other five beds seemed to be occupied by 
men determined to snore their way to hell. His heart 
was still behaving queerly, but bit by bit the true position 
was dawning on him. A gaoler ! This must be the prison 
infirmary. They had him at last. How did they discover 
it all ? Vultures ! The Englishman, John Watson, an 
inert piece of matter ! The field-glasses. 

“ Why did you throw the case away ? Imbecile ! ” 

Where was Uncle Sem ? Why wasn’t he here ? He 
deserved everything and always escaped. Liar, thief, 
seducer, murderer, property receiver. . . . “ Tweet! 
Tweet! " 

What a satisfaction to wring that fat canary’s neck ! 
Crush it under foot! Where was La Tonnerre ? 

But they had him. That was the fact to be faced—they 
had him at last, Jules Destourney. The Englishman, John 
Watson ? Ah, God, if he were the only one ! The long 
relentless arm of the police, the cold, relentless logic of the 
courts, the calm, inevitable chain of evidence prepared by 
Inspector Tolozan, who had been watching him for years— 
what chance had he to stand against it ? It couldn’t be 
faced. Something must be done. Some exit must be 
found. He lay there, with eyes half-closed. A figure in a 
white overall passed through, other] figures,^! vaguely 
occupied. 

It must be the middle of the night, The man in blue 


28 


THE FALL 


clanked by once more. He went to the end of the room 
and talked with someone behind a screen. The door had 
been left ajar. Yes, there was one thing he could do. 

E He slipped out of bed, and was surprised at the ease and 
silence with which he glided through that door . . . like 
a ghost In a flash he was along that corridor, and turned 

down two others. The place was all in darkness 

Here and there were piled-up trestles, and planks and 
short ladders. Pails of size and lime-wash were lined along 
the wall. This must be one of the Superintendent s 
quarters, being re-decorated. Without any hesitancy, he 
opened a door and entered a room. It was bare, except for 
more planks and trestles and lime-wash. The room was 
lighted by the light of the moon. He crept to the window. 
His heart beat violently. The window was not barred. 
Across a narrow alleyway was a low stone building, all in 
darkness. It must have been the Governor s house. This 
room was level with the roof. On one side of the building 
was an iron spiral staircase-a fire emergency staircase. 
This led to the Governor’s private grounds. As far as he 
could see on the farther side was a wall not too high to scale. 

But now this alleyway between the room and the roof 
opposite ? ’ It could be little more than three metres to the 
stone parapet. He quickly calculated the length of the 
painters’ planks. One was at least three metres and a half. 


Someone would be coming! He listened at the door. 
There was no lock. It had got to be done boldly. He 
gripped the plank and thrust it through the open window. 
Good God it barely reached 1 He could not see how far 
on it was, but not more than the length of his first finger, he 

could swear. . , A . , 

It had got to be done. No time to lose. Again he was 

surprised at his own agility and nerve. He slipped quickly 
from the window-sill on to the plank. Crawl slowly across 


THE FALL 


29 


on hands and knees, that was the idea. He almost chuckled 
to himself as he swung carefully forward. 

“ They won’t get me 1 They shan’t get me!” 

He had gone a metre and a half, and then he looked 
down on to the stone floor of the alley beneath. 

In that brief instant he realized that he had reached the 
culminating terror of his life. It was predestination. This 
was no dream. He was going to fall 1 He lay there, com¬ 
pletely paralysed with the certain knowledge of what was 
to happen. He was actively visualizing the whole ex¬ 
perience. He was half-way across, and he could go neither 
backwards nor forwards. The ground beneath held him 
pinioned. The stone floor seemed to be sucking him 
towards it. He shook with an ague of terror, and at the 
same instant the plank seemed to be imperceptibly moving, 
as though he were rocking one end off its support. If any¬ 
one came they could not save him. Nothing could save 
him. He was going to fall l 

He wanted to scream again, as in his dreams, but, 
curiously enough, the sounds were throttled in his breast 
in just the same way. And then the plank distinctly 
swayed. He fell forward on his face and clutched it. It 
turned up on one side. He flung his arms round it, and 
fell free, hanging by its narrow edge. And still he could 
not scream. 

During the horrific instant that followed when he realized 
that his strength was feebler than the suction of the ground 
beneath, he was still perplexed with the problem of why it 
was he could not scream. 

The plank slipped from its support on the wall opposite 
at the same moment that he lost his grip. His body seemed 
to drop and leave his heart where it had been, and his 
hands clutching the air. Some part of him was racing 
madly through space, and the ground was rushing up to 
strike the heart which he had left above him. His con¬ 
sciousness seemed to split up into a variety of vital 


30 


THE FALL 


activities. There was something rushing through his ears, 
like the roaring of a steam engine going through a tunnel. 
He was falling 1 

There was a sudden whirling vision of his mother stepping 
o f£ the gangway of a boat and saying : “ Come on, my little 
one. Are you tired then ? ” There was a hiss of water, 
the vision of a girl he had known once at Bayonne, named 
Lisette. She was weeping into an apron and crying out: 

‘ No, no, not that l not that! ” Other visions crowded 
simultaneously—his brother eating ginger-bread, Uncle 
Sem, and the canary which seemed to have reached vast 
dimensions, filling up a whole room. There was a fat man 
in a tweed suit lying on his face amongst some bushes, and 
coughing horribly. There was a half-vision, half-realiza¬ 
tion, of something bursting, blowing up to the sky in a 
horrible explosion of unbelievable violence. A crystallized 
instant in which all the anger, all the feral passions, crashed 

in an agony of blood. . . . 

****** 

“ You think, then, Doctor Lancret,” said Inspector 
Tolozan, as the two men entered the solemn mortuary, 
“ that there will be no need for a post-mortem examination 
of the body ? ” 

“ None at all, Monsieur Tolozan/’ replied the doctor. 

‘ ‘ The cause of death was perfectly normal. The deceased 
passed away quietly in his sleep as the result of cardiac 
failure, probably due to the shock of his arrest and the 
nature of the charge against him. Such cases are not at all 
uncommon, as you know, not at all.” 

“ You yourself were on duty. Monsieur le docteur ? ” 

“ Yes, Monsieur Tolozan. When the—er—deceased was 
brought in at 8.20 p.m. he was in a state of coma. We 
tested the heart and found it to be in a very bad condition, 
very bad condition indeed. He slept soundly until 
3.20 a.m. when the attendant called me to say that number 
107 was showing signs of collapse. I arrived, but we could 


THE FALL 


81 


do nothing. He sank rapidly and passed away at three 
minutes past four. Um—yes, that was how it was. Are 
you going to Madame Lombard’s reception to-night ? ” 

“ No,” answered Inspector Tolozan. “ No, I am not 
going.” 

“You will excuse me, Monsieur Tolozan? I have 
much to do before ...” 

“ But, certainly, Monsieur le docteur, and thank you.” 

The doctor bustled out, and Inspector Tolozan turned 
once more to the body covered with a white sheet. He 
raised the cloth and regarded the features of the criminal, 
now immutably set in calm repose. 

And there crept into his eyes an expression of pity and 
wonder. This analyst of human frailties, this solver of 
human problems stood meekly in the presence of a mystery 
beyond his powers to solve. 

With a reverent gesture he replaced the cloth and went 
out quietly. 



ONE SUNDAY MORNING 


The iron fingers of habit probed his consciousness into 
the realization that it was seven-thirty, the hour to rise. 
He sighed as he pushed his way to the surface through the 
pleasant obscurity of tangled dreams. And then, oh, joy ! 
his conscious brain registered the abrupt reflection that 
t was Sunday. Oh, happy thought. Oh, glorious and 
soporific reflection ! He sunk back again, like a deep sea 
monster plunging into the dark waters of its natural en¬ 
vironment. There passed a long untroubled passage of 
time, in which his sub-conscious mind dallied with ecstatic 
emotions. Then slowly and reluctantly he blinked once 
more into the light of day and knowingness. This re-entry 
was accompanied by the pleasant sound of running water. 
His wife was in the bathroom, already getting up. Her 
activity and the sound of her ablutions added a piquance 
to the luxury of his own state. Oh, Sunday, glorious and 
inactive day ! 

His mind became busy with the anticipations of his own 
inactivity. 

Breakfast in bed ! When he won the Calcutta Sweep- 
stake he would always have breakfast in bed. There was 
something irresistibly luxurious about sitting up snugly in 
the warmed bed, eating toast and bacon and drinking hot 
tea that someone else, pottering about in the cold, had had 
to prepare. And when one had had breakfast one was a 
man, fortified for anything, even to the extent of getting up. 

His wife came back into the bedroom, wearing—oh, 
those funny things that women wear underneath deceptive 
frocks. He had been married for sixteen years and the 
33 


34 ONE SUNDAY MORNING 

vision of his wife in these habiliments did not produce m 
him any great manifestation of interest. He realized that 
he wanted his tea, and his interests were more nearly 
concerned with the estimate of how long it would take her 
to finish dressing and go downstairs and make it. And 
after breakfast—oh, that first cigarette and the indolent 
stimulus of reading the Sunday newspaper from cover to 
cover His wife was chatting away about the cook-general, 
who was ill, and he boomed out a lethargic yes or no 
according to the decision which he believed that she 
expected. Oh, luxurious and delicious indifference ! 

She bustled away at last, and he listened entranced to the 
distant sound of rattling plates and tea-cups. A pity that 
Jenny had to get the breakfast herself, but there I she 
didn’t have to go to the city every day in the week, and 
besides—if was the woman’s sphere. His conscience was 
serene and satisfied, his senses aroused almost to exultation 
by the sudden and insidious smell of frying bacon. 

When she brought the tray he roused himself valiantly 
to say the gracious thing, for he realized that the situation 
was a little dangerous. His wife was not in too good a 
temper over this affair of the fool of a cook. If he was 
not careful, she would want him to do something, chop wood 
or bring up coals, some angular and disturbing abrasion 
upon the placidity of his natural rights. However, she 
left the breakfast tray without any such disquieting threats. 

He stared at the tray, when she had gone, as a cat may 
look at a mouse which she has cornered, realizing that the 
great charm of the situation lies in the fact that there is no 
hurry. At last he poured himself out a large cup of tea, 
and drunk it in gulps. He then got busy on the bacon and 
the toast. He ate up all the bacon carefully and thought¬ 
fully, cleaning up the liquid fat with a piece of bread. He 
began to feel good. He drank more tea, and ate slice after 
slice of buttered toast, piled up with marmalade. At last 
he sank back on the pillow replete. Then he reached out 


ONE SUNDAY MORNING 


85 


and took his cigarette case out of his coat pocket. He 
lighted a cigarette and opened the Sunday newspaper. 
Then indeed did he reach the culmination of all his satis¬ 
factions. Strange how much more interesting and readable 
a Sunday me wspaper is than a daily paper. A daily paper 
is all rush and headlines, designed entirely for the strap¬ 
hanger. The Sunday paper was conceived in the interest 
of breakfasters in bed. It is all slow-going and familiar. 
You know just where to look for everything, and you almost 
know what will be printed there. He first of all read care¬ 
fully the results of all the previous day’s football. Queer 
that he should do so, for he had not played football for 
twenty-five years, and then very indifferently. But he had 
sneaking affections for certain clubs and he looked eagerly 
to see how they were faring. Then he read the General 
news. Everything seemed interesting; even political 
speeches were not too dull, but divorce and criminal cases 
were thrilling. He took no interest in literature, drama 
or music, but sayings of the week, police court news, foreign 
intelligence, even Court chat, absorbed him. He read the 
advertisements and then the football news again, knocking 
the ash off his cigarette into the tea-cup. Sometimes his 
arms would get cold holding the paper, and he would put 
it down and tuck them under him. He would stare around 
the room, and glow with proprietorial delight. Then he 
would pick up the paper and start all over again. His 
splendid reveries were eventually disturbed by the voice of 
his wife calling from below : 

“Jim, are you going to get up to-day or to-morrow ? ” 

Dear, oh dear! Disturbing and alarming creatures, 
women. No sense of repose, no appreciation of real 
tranquillity. However, it must be getting late, and the 
morning constitutional to give one an appetite for lunch 
must not be disregarded. He devoted another ten minutes 
to an inert contemplation of the function of rising and 
dressing, and then rolled out of bed. He went into the 


86 ONE SUNDAY MORNING 

bathroom, and] lighted the geyser for his weekly bath. 
When the water was hot enough he drew off some for 
shaving, and returnedjto the bedroom for his new packet 
of safety razors. He caught sight of himself in the long 
mirror which his wife used. The reflection was so familiar 
that it produced in him no emotion whatever. He felt no 
misgiving about the puffy modelling of the face, the dis¬ 
hevelled strands of disappearing hair, the taut line made 
by the cord of his dressing-gown where it met around his 
middle. He was just himself, getting up. Besides, no man 
looks his best first thing in the morning. 

When he returned to the bathroom he was in gay 
spirits. During the operation of shaving he made curious 
volcanic noises meant to represent the sound of singing. 
Running water always affected him like that. The only 
disquieting element in this joyous affair was the fact that 
steam from the bath kept on clouding the mirror. He kept 
on rubbing it with a towel, shaving a little bit, then rubbing 
again, to the accompaniment of many damns and con¬ 
founds. When that was over he pondered for some 
moments on the question of whether he should clean his 
teeth first, or have his bath. As the room was beginning 
to get full of steam, he decided on the latter course. He 
got in and let himself down slowly, for the water was very 
hot, and though his legs could stand it, other portions of his 
anatomy were more sensitive. He let in some cold water 
and settled down with a plomp. He soaped himself, and 
rubbed himself, and lay on his back, splashing gently. 
Glorious and delightful sensation. If he had time he would 
like to have a hot bath every day, but how could you expect 
a fellow to when he had to be in the city every day at nine- 
thirty ? He got out of the bath, hot and pink and shiny. 
He dried himself, and cleaned his teeth. There ! all the 
serious side of getting up was accomplished. During the 
performance of dressing he smoked another cigarette. He 
dressed very slowly, and deliberately, putting on a clean 


ONE SUNDAY MORNING 


37 


shirt, vest, socks and collar. Golly! he felt good. He 
puffed out his chest, opened the window, and brushed his 
hair. He was rather pleased with his general appearance 
of respectability. 

Now came the dangerous moment. He had to go down¬ 
stairs. Would he be able to escape without being ordered 
to perform some unpleasant task by his wife ? He went 
down, humming soulfully. In the sitting-room the fire 
was burning brightly, but Jennie was not there. He could 
hear her bustling about in the kitchen, already preparing 
the solemn rites affecting the Sunday joint ... no in¬ 
significant ritual. He wandered about the room, touching 
things, admiring their arrangement. He picked up two 
letters, which had come by the last post the previous night, 
and read them again. One was from his wife’s sister at 
Ramsgate, full of details about the illness of her hus¬ 
band. The other was from a gentleman offering to lend 
him any sum of money from £5 to £10,000 on note of hand 
alone, without security. He tried to visualize £10,000, 
what he could do with it, the places he could visit, the house 
he could rent on the top of Hampstead Heath, a few dinners 
at the Savoy perhaps, a month in Paris (he had never been 
abroad). Then he tore the letter up and went into the 
kitchen. 

“ Er—anything I can do, my dear ? ” 

“ No, except to get out of the way.” 

She was obviously on edge. Women were like that, 
especially first thing in the morning . . . curious creatures. 
He picked his teeth with a broken match, which happened 
to be conveniently in a waistcoat pocket. Anyway, he had 
done his duty. He had faced the music. 

“Well, I’ll just go for a stroll round,” he murmured 
ingratiatingly. He had escaped ! A pallid sun was trying 
to penetrate a nebulous bank of clouds. The air was 
fresh and stimulating. A muffin man came along, ringing 
his bell. He passed two anaemic women carrying prayer 


38 


ONE SUNDAY MORNING 


books. At the corner of the road "was a man with an 
impromptu kiosk of newspapers. He hesitated as to 
whether he should buy another newspaper. His wife 
wouldn't approve. She would say it was extravagant. 
Well, he could read on a seat on the top of the heath, and 
leave it there. But still—he resisted the temptation and 
walked on. The streets had their definitely Sunday 
look. You could tell it was Sunday in a glance . . . milk, 
prayer books, newspapers, muffins, wonderful! . Dear 
England! A crowd of hatless young men on bicycles 
came racing along the Finchley Road, swarms of them, like 
gnats, and in the middle a woman riding behind a man on 
a tandem. They were all laughing and shouting with rather 
common voices . . . enjoying themselves though, off to 
the country for the day. 

“ The woman looks like the queen gnat,” he reflected. 
“ They are pursuing her. The race to the swift, the battle 
to the strong.” He was pleased with the luminance of 
this reflection. A boy asked him for a cigarette picture. 
He shook his head and passed on. Then he wondered 
whether . . . well, he had several in his pocket, but some¬ 
how he felt it would look silly to be giving cigarette pictures 
to a boy in the street. He didn’t like that kind of thing. 
It made him conspicuous. Passers by might look at him 
and say : " Look at that fat man giving a boy cigarette 
pictures.” And they might laugh. It was all very curious, 
foolish perhaps, but there it was. 

He knew he was going to walk up to the top of the heath, 
and along the Spaniards’ Road, but he never liked to make 
up his mind to. He walked there by instalments, some¬ 
times almost deciding to turn back, but he invariably got 
there in the end. Besides, what else could he do ? Dinner 
was not till half-past one. He couldn’t go home, and there 
was nowhere to sit down. Going up the hill he was 
conscious of the disturbance of his pulmonary organs . . . 
heart not too good, either, you know. The day would come 


ONE SUNDAY MORNING 


89 


when this would be too much for him. He enjoyed it 
when he got there. Oh, yes, this was a joyous^place . . . 
heartening. He liked the noise, and bustle, and sense of 
space and light. Nearly every Sunday for twenty years he 
had walked up here. It was where the Cockney came to 
peep out of London, and regard the great world, the unex¬ 
plored vista of his possessions. He was a little shy of it. 
He didn’t look at the view much, but he liked to feel it 
was there. He preferred to watch boys sailing miniature 
yachts on the round pond, or to listen to a Socialist lecturer 
being good-humouredly heckled by a crowd. Every 
Sunday he had pondered an identical problem—why these 
public lecturers always chose the very noisiest spot on the 
whole heath, near the pond, amidst the yelping of dogs, 
the tooting of motor horns, the back-firing of motor bikes, 
and the din of a Salvation Army band. But there it was ! 
This was England, perhaps the most English thing in all 
England. There were the young men in plus fours, 
without hats, old men with their dogs, red-cheeked women 
riding astride brown mares . . . cars, bicycles, horses, 
dogs, even yachts! There were the fat policemen in 
couples, talking lazily, their mission being apparently to 
see that the fiery gentleman by the pond was allowed free 
speech. . . . There were boys with kites, and boys with 
scooters, boys with nursemaids. Oh, a man’s place this. 
Many more men than women. Did not the predominance 
signify something vital, something pertinent to the core of 
English life—the Sunday joint ? It was only the women 
with cooks who were allowed to adorn this gay company. 
And even then—could a cook be trusted ? Wasn’t the 
wife’s or mother’s true place basting the sirloin, or regulating 
the gas-stove so that the roast shoulder should be done to 
a turn ? 

These reflections caused him to focus his attention upon 
the personal equation. What was to be the Sunday joint 
to-day ? He was already beginning to feel those first 


40 


ONE SUNDAY MORNING 


delightful pangs of hunger, the just reward of exercise in 
fresh air. The Sunday joint ? Why, yes, of course, he had 
heard Jenny say that she had ordered a loin of pork. Pork ! 
delicious and seductive word. He licked his lips, and 
visualized the set board. It was not entirely a misfortune 
that the cook was ill, for Jenny was a much better cook. 
The pork would be done to a turn, with its beautiful brown 
encasement of crackling. There would be apple-sauce, 
Brussels sprouts, and probably lovely brown potatoes. 
He would carve. It was only right of course that the master 
of the house—the breadwinner—should control this 
ceremonial. There were little snippy brown bits—and 
that little bit of kidney underneath—that—well, one 
didn’t give to a servant for instance. 

He passed the orator once more, and overheard this 
remark: 

“ The day is coming when these blood-suckers will be 
forced to disgorge. They will be made to stew in their 
own juice. Look at Russia ! ” 

Nobody appeared to be looking at Russia. With their 
pipes in the corner of their mouths they were looking stolidly 
at the speaker, or at the boys and their yachts. Dogs were 
barking furiously, and motor horns drowned any further 
declamation till he was out of hearing. The two fat 
policemen were talking about horse-racing. Oh, wonderful 
and imperishable country! 

He had heard men talk in that strain before—but only 
in the city or in stuffy tea-shops. They spoke with fear 
in their hearts. Something was always going to happen. 
They didn't quite know what, but it was always something 
awful, and the country was just on the eve of it. But up 
here, amidst these dogs and bikes and horses you knew that 
nothing could ever happen to England. Everybody 
just went on doing things, making the best of things. The 
air was sweet and good. There was the Sunday joint in 
the offing, and the Cup Final next Sunday to be discussed. 


ONE SUNDAY MORNING 


41 


He looked at his watch and proceeded to walk slowly 
homewards. It cannot be said that he thought about 
anything very definite on the way back, but his mind was 
pleasantly attacked by fragmentary thoughts, half-fledged 
ambitions to make more money, anticipations of a masonic 
dinner the following week, the dim vision of an old romance 
with a girl in a tobacconist shop at Barnes. But at the 
back of his mind there loomed the solid assurance of the 
one thing that mattered—pork ! He played with the 
vision, not openly but secretly. After the pork there 
would be pudding. He didn’t care much about pudding, 
but there was a very good old gorgonzola to follow, and 
then a glass of port. After dinner a cigar, and then the 
Sunday newspaper again until he fell into that delightful 
doze in front of the fire. Oh, blessed day ! 

His timing was superb. He arrived at “ The Dog and 
Dolphin ” at exactly one o'clock, in accordance with a 
time-honoured tradition—the gin and bitters to put the 
edge on one’s appetite for dinner. The bar was filled with 
the usual Sunday morning crowd, some who had risen 
just in time for the bar to open, other stalwarts like himself, 
who had earned their appetiser through walking. 

He was just ordering a gin and bitters when a voice 
said: 

“ Hullo, old boy, have this with me.” 

He turned and beheld Beeswax, a fellow city man. 
They had known each other for fifteen years, meeting nearly 
every day, but neither had ever visited the other’s house. 
He said: 

“ No, go on, you have it with me.” 

They went through the usual formula of arguing who 
should pay for the first drink, both knowing quite well 
that the other would inevitably have to stand another 
drink in return. They stood each other two drinks, making 
four in all. In the meantime they discussed old so-and-so 
and old thingummy, trade, dogs, tobacco and females. 

D 


42 


ONE SUNDAY MORNING 


Then he looked at his watch again. Just five-and-twenty 
past—perfect! 

“ Well, old boy, I must be off or I shall get into trouble 
with the missus/' 

He walked quite briskly up the street, feeling good. 
Life wasn’t such a bad business to a normal man, if he— 
looked after himself, and on the bright side of things. 
Pork, eh ? 

He knocked his pipe out against the parapet in the front 
garden, walked up the steps, and let himself in. He hung 
up his coat and hat, and was about to enter the sitting- 
room, when he became abruptly sensitive to disaster. It 
began in the realization that there was no smell of roasting 
pork, no smell of anything cooking. He felt angry. Fate 
was going to cheat him in some way or the other. He did 
not have long to wait. His wife came screaming down the 
stairs, her face deadly white, her hair awry. 

“ Jim ! Jim ! ” she shouted, “ rush to the corner quick. 
Fetch a policeman ! ” 

“ What ? ’’ he said. 

“ Fetch a policeman ! ” 

" What for ? ” 

“ Moyna. She’s dead. I went upstairs an hour ago 
and found her lying fully dressed on the floor. The gas- 
stove was turned on. She looked awful, but she wasn’t 
quite dead. I dragged her into our room, and fetched a 
doctor. He did what he could, but she died. She’s lying 
dead on our bed. The doctor’s up there now.” 

“ Yes, but-” 

“Don’t argue. Fetch a policeman. The doctor says 
we must.” 

He fumbled his way out into the hall, and put on his 
hat and coat again. He knew it was no good arguing with 
his wife when she was like that. Damn ! How wretched 
and disturbing and—inconvenient. He walked slowly up the 
street. What a disgusting and unpleasant job—fetching 


ONE SUNDAY MORNING 


43 


a policeman—beastly! He found a ripe specimen at the 
comer, staring at nothing. He explained the situation 
apologetically to the officer. The latter turned the matter 
over in his mind and made a noise that sounded like : 
“ Huh-huh.” 

Then the two strolled back to the house at the law’s 
pace, and talked about the weather. He found his wife 
in the sitting-room, sobbing and carrying on, and the doctor 
was there too, and another woman from next door. 

“ I believe these women rather enjoy this kind of thing,” 
he reflected, the fires of hunger and anger burning within 
him. They all went upstairs and left him to ruminate. 
What a confounded and disgusting nuisance ! Anyway, 
what did Jenny want to carry on like that for about a 
servant. Who was she ? She hadn’t been there long, 
about two weeks. She was an Irish girl, not bad-looking 
in that dark way. He seemed to remember that Jenny 
said she was married or something. Some man had been 
cruel to her, cruel and callous, she had said. She used to 
cry. Confound it! Why was it so difficult to get a good 
servant ? But there it was. Jenny would carry on and be 
hysterical all the afternoon. There would be no dinner. 
Perhaps a snack of cheese or something on the quiet. 
Women were absurd, impossible. You couldn’t cope with 
them. They had no reasoning power, no logic, no sense of 
fatality, no repose. It was enough to make one boil . . . 
pork, too ! 










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THE DARK CORRIDOR 


When the iron door of the cell clicks to, and the convict 
is shut in for the night, it is not^ often that the sound 
produces in him a sense of elation. But to them all there 
is perhaps one occasion when it does so—the night before 
release. 

p> At the sound of that familiar click the mind o^Raymond 
Calverley instinctively registered the phrase, “ The last 
time ! ” 

When the door was opened again he would be free. The 
price would have been paid. Till now he had hardly 
dare visualize this moment. There had been whole days, 
whole nights, whole years when he could not persuade 
himself that it would ever come to pass. He felt sick with 
agitation. He sat upon the bed and buried his face in his 
hands. Free, really, really free 1 He had been a good 
sleeper, but to-night he would not sleep. Memories, fears, 
anticipations raced through his brain. In a few hours more 
he would be facing the outside world. There was something 
terrifying in the thought—facing the unknown. His 
sympathies quickened towards some of those old prison 
“ lags ” who, after serving twenty years or so, preferred 
prison life. It was, in any case, familiar and understand¬ 
able. The outside world to them was completely bewilder¬ 
ing. They didn't know how to cope with it. 

But he—he was only forty-six, and he had only served 
five years and three months. Only ! Five years and three 
months 1 Five thousand years and three hundred months. 
There had been moments during the first year when he 
45 


46 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


thought he would go mad, when half an hour seemed like 
an eternity, and he would think : 

“ That’s half-an-hour. Now there’s to be another half- 
hour. Then another and another and another, and then 
eventually a whole day, and a whole night. Then all over 
again and again and again till a week passes. Then all 
over and over again till a month passes. Then the seasons 
change. It will be winter again, and then summer, and 
then winter again and then summer, and so on and on and 
on five times. And I’m changing all the time. The 
outside world is changing. All the things I desire are cut 
off from me. I shall never endure it. Oh, God ! ” 

But he had endured it. The reality had come to pass. 
In a few hours. ... Of all the manifestations of Nature 
that which is called human is the most adaptable. As the 
years passed he found himself adapting himself to prison 
life, creating a life within a life. There were times when 
he even persuaded himself that he was happy. This was 
largely the outcome of a sense of physical well-being. 
Prison life suited him. He had been forced to work out in 
the open several hours a day, on the farms, and in the 
quarries, fourteen hundred feet above the sea on Dartmoor. 
The air itself was a tonic. He had been plainly but 
adequately fed. He had to retire for the night at five 
o’clock. He had been cut off from alcohol, which had been 
partly the cause of his undoing. During the last two years 
he had been allowed to smoke for half-an-hour twice a 
day, but that was all. Everything was regular, ordered, 
and methodical. He had no responsibility. He was 
physically fit, much fitter than he had been at any time since 
he left school. For part of the time he had worked in the 
carpenter’s shop. He had come to like the smell of wood, 
and the sense of creating something which was going to be 
used. There had been odd moments when the whole 
atmosphere of the prison seemed friendly and satisfying. 
Some little concession would be magnified into a great act 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


47 


of kindness. He had had opportunities for reading, and 
greater ones for reflecting. And his dominant reflection 
had been : “I must so manage my mind that I do not 
eternally regard myself as a criminal.” His struggle for 
self respect had been acute. To foster this he took all the 
trouble he could with his personal appearance. A wise 
provision of recent years allows the convict a safety razor 
and the liberty to wear his hair as he likes. Raymond took 
advantage of this. He shaved every day, and brushed his 
grey locks carefully, sometimes even lubricating them with 
a little of His Majesty’s butter ! His skin was tanned with 
sun and wind. He would return to the outside world a 
better specimen physically. But mentally and morally ? 
here were greater difficulties. His mind said : “I was 
guilty. I let things drift. I was weak and foolish. I 
saw an opportunity to make a great sum of money easily. 
I was dishonest. I was found out. They punished me. 
I have paid the price. To this extent I am purged. I see 
things more clearly now. I shall not be dishonest again. 
I have no desire to be. I have lost the desire in the same 
way that I have lost the desire for alcohol. I just want 
my chance to be a decent citizen again. But will they let 
me ? What will be their attitude towards me ? Above 
all—how can I face my son ? ” 

At this point in his reflections he would groan aloud, for 
his son was the mainspring of his life. 

Raymond had been an importer of chemicals, with 
offices in Fenchurch Street. At the age of twenty-two he 
had married the daughter of a wealthy shipbroker. After 
their first passionate attachment he and his wife found that 
their interests did not dovetail. Had it not been for the 
son who was born the following year, it is possible that he 
and his wife would have agreed to separate. Not that 
there was any serious breach between them. It was 
simply that familiar cleavage of little things. It took 
years to discover that they had little in common, and when 


48 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


the discovery was made each prepared to make the best of 
it—not an unusual marital position. They had remained 
on perfectly friendly terms, and it was only over the up¬ 
bringing of the boy that they came into conflict, and even 
then the contest was conducted without bitterness. 

His wife was a Society woman, with Society interests. 
She rode, hunted, played golf, took the waters at fashion¬ 
able places abroad, went to church, and backed horses. 
Raymond liked books and rambling in the country, and 
that Society spelt with a small “ s ” which one meets in 
country inns or London taverns. When his wife con¬ 
descended to come to London they shared the same house, 
but they made all their arrangements independently by 
mutual consent. But when it came to the arrangements 
about the boy, Ralph, they were forced to compromise. If 
he wanted the boy in London, she would want him in 
Yorkshire. If he wanted to take him for a holiday to 
Cornwall, she would want to take him to Trouville. If he 
wanted him to go up to Oxford, she would insist on 
Cambridge. And so the ding-dong race went on, with 
Kathleen usually a neck or two ahead. 

With his wife usually abroad, and his son at college, 
Raymond would have led a lonely life in the large house in 
Russell Square. Only there are clubs. He belonged to 
several and he was a good club man. Many considered 
him an ideal club man, being genial, lavishly hospitable, 
and a good raconteur. He drifted into the habit of lunch¬ 
ing in clubs, dining in clubs, and calling at clubs between 
meals. Like many men of his kind, without being a 
drunkard, he drank considerably too much, in the sheer 
exuberance of social intercourse. He could afford to be 
generous, as his business was successful, and his wife had a 
large private fortune of her own. But one day he was 
tricked by some Argentine gentlemen, and lost a very 
large sum of money over a deal in nitrates. The bitterness 
of this acted upon him disastrously. He was worried by 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


49 


the complications arising from it, and he drowned his 
distress in the accustomed way. He visited more clubs, 
and pubs. And unfortunately in one of these expeditions 
he met Max Rawle. Max was one of those people of no 
determinate age, nationality or profession, who neverthe¬ 
less seem to embody all the vices of every age, nation, and 
profession, and to wrap up the same in a cloak of irresistible 
charm. He was a natural swindler. People knew he was 
going to swindle them, and they couldn't help it. They 
would even forgive him after the deed was done, so 
plausible and charming was he. 

And under the influence of Max Rawle Raymond became 
as clay in the hands of the potter. They lunched and 
dined together, played billiards, and went to night clubs. 
Max was a brilliant talker, and had lived in strange lands 
and mixed with strange people. 

The trouble had occurred soon after he and his wife had 
disagreed about whether Ralph should go up to Oxford or 
Cambridge. As usual she had had her way, and Ralph had 
gone up to Trinity. Kathleen went off to Biarritz and had 
no intention of returning till the end of the term. Raymond 
followed the easy path and found himself getting into debt, 
and his moral fibre slackening. He was too proud to apply 
to his wife for money to stabilize his affairs. And one 
mad evening Max dangled before him the lure of a mighty 
opportunity. It could hardly fail. So ingenious and yet 
so simple did the scheme appear that Raymond was 
astonished that it had never occurred to anyone before. 
It concerned the transference of certain blocks of interests 
backwards and forwards between two different companies 
at the opportune moment, thus giving an inflated appear¬ 
ance to both. It hardly seemed dishonest in the way that 
Max devised it. They were to go shares. But a few days 
after he had completed his part of the bargain, Max had 
disappeared, and nothing had been seen of him since. 
Raymond was left in the air. He was unable to explain 


50 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


his position. A long and involved commercial trial resulted 
in his being condemned to seven years penal servitude for 
fraud. With a good conduct record this had been reduced 
to five years and three months. 

But how was he to face his son ? His wife had taken 
the matter better than he had anticipated. She had even 
written to him regularly every three months, formal little 
letters about the boy and family affairs. She had up¬ 
braided him for not appealing to her when in financial 
straits. And had hinted that she would set him on his 
feet again when released. The boy had written him chatty 
school-boyish letters ignoring his father’s crime ; his only 
resentment being apparently that he had had to leave 
Cambridge before he had been up a year. He had been 
spending his time partly with his mother, who had settled 
abroad, and partly with a tutor in a remote village in Suffolk. 

His son! Raymond would lie in his cell bed at night 
and groan. He would think of the boy at all the stages of 
his life. When he was a toddler and would lie in his arms, 
when he began to lisp and talk. When he would run to 
him and throw his arms around him. He could hear the 
sound of that baby voice : “ Daddy, daddy ! ” And then 
he taught him all the simple things, and Ralph went to 
school. How proud he had been when the boy came home 
and asked his advice and help. He would see the little 
sturdy figure come swinging along the street, a satchel 
strapped over his scarlet jersey. His handsome eager face 
would light up with pleasure when he saw his father. And 
they would go for walks together, holding hands, and talk¬ 
ing about birds, and trees, and games. And the boy 
loved and respected him. He also loved and respected his 
mother, and he could not understand any differences 
between them. And so the parents compromised and 
patched up a union of sorts, but they were jealous of each 
other. 

Raymond had loved to watch the unfolding of the boy’s 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


51 


mind. He had loved the steady growth of their greater 
intimacy. He had searched fearfully for traces of his own 
failings and weaknesses. His greatest desire had been 
that the boy should be a better man than he. And every¬ 
thing pointed to his desire being fulfilled. Ralph was a 
good boy, unselfish, affectionate, easy-going, and consider¬ 
ate. He was intelligent, but he did not distinguish himself 
very notably at school either at work or play. But what 
did that matter ? It is often the slow starter who wins the 
race. Besides, he would always be well provided for. 
Raymond knew that his mother had left everything to the 
boy in her will, and he did not resent one penny of it. They 
would never have any more children. This sense of 
security contributed largely to his own undoing. There 
was no need to make efforts. As the boy had become more 
independent, and his wife more occupied with her own 
affairs, Raymond became more detached and irresponsible. 
His business had run smoothly, requiring no great personal 
strain, and it didn’t seem very important whether it suc¬ 
ceeded or not. There was no great need for him to labour, 
neither did there appear any great call on him to set an 
example, when Ralph was at college. The boy had been 
launched. He had been handed health, security and good 
precepts. Raymond had felt that his obligations to 
society at large were not impressive. And he had begun 
to drift. The weakness was inexcusable, but it had taken 
the cold stern experience and suffering of prison life to 
make it clear to him. The price had been paid. He had 
so managed his mind that he would leave the prison feeling 
that he was no longer a criminal. 

When the crash had come and he had stood in the dock 
at the Old Bailey, and listened to the suave voice of the 
judge condemning him to seven years imprisonment, there 
had flashed before his mind the image of Ralph’s eager 
young face exclaiming: 

“ What’s all this about, Dad ? ” 


52 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


The boy would never believe he was a criminal. He 
simply could not understand. It had not been indeed a 
simple case to understand. He had been able to make 
the excuse, but not the defence, that he himself did not 
understand. He had muddled things up, signed the 
wrong papers. The excuse satisfied the boy of course. 
But the law is more explicit. The law gave him every 
opportunity, left him every loophole, but was relentless in 
the logic of its ordered facts. 

But since that tragic day the boy had had five years to 
study those facts. He had come to man’s estate. People 
would have told him, and explained to him, doubtless made 
things as unpleasant as possible—some of them. And he 
would have wanted to know—oh, so eagerly! He would 
not be likely to exclaim now : 

“ What’s all this about, Dad ? ” 

Even his voice would have changed. Oh, God ! 

He dozed fitfully until the morning light crept between 
the prison bars, when, strangely enough, he slept soundly, 
only to be awakened by the familiar click of the cell door. 

“ The last time ! ” 

He dressed carefully, washed, and had his breakfast. 
He was led to a room where he filled up many forms. Then 
his clothes were given him. There was much clanking of 
chains and keys. Crossing the yard in charge of a warder 
he passed a working party on its way to the farriers. All 
of the convicts were familiar to him. Many of them would 
be there for ten years or more, and in two minutes he would 
be free ! He shuffled along feeling a little ashamed, as 
though he were taking something from them which they 
had a right to share. As they neared the outer gate, the 
warder, a fat elderly person of the old school, said : 

“ Well, good luck, son ! ” 

A lump came in his throat at this unexpected friendly 
gesture, and he could not reply. A great wave of pity 
flooded him, pity ... oh, for all the world. 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


58 


The gate opened. He stepped through into the sunshine. 
He heard it click behind him. He was free. He stood for 
a moment bewildered. Then he walked a little way up the 
road. There was no one about. He stood by a wall and 
wept, for no palpable reason. He felt curiously sick, like 
a man surfeited with rich food. 

He had half expected . . . someone would meet him at 
the prison gates. But the street was utterly deserted. 
His wife knew of the day of his release and she had sent 
him money, but no hint of where she was or where the boy 
was. It was like starting life all over again. He was 
startled by the approach of a tall figure emerging from a 
house. His instinct was to run. It was a familiar figure 
coming to recapture him. A deep booming voice said : 

“ Well, Calverley, you’re out, then ! ” 

It was the prison chaplain. Raymond blinked and the 
chaplain held out his hand. As he held it he realised that 
this was the first human hand he had touched for five long 
years. 

“Well, my good fellow, I trust you now to keep 
straight.” 

He resented this. Straight! What right had this person 
to lecture him—Raymond Calverley, the man who was no 
longer a criminal ? Nevertheless he said weakly : 

“ I shall try, sir.” 

He wanted to get away. The chaplain made a few more 
unctuous remarks, but he did not hear them. He hurried 
away and walked to Princetown Station. He had a pass 
to London, and he sat in the corner of the waiting-room. 
The train did not go for nearly an hour. People regarded 
him furtively. In Princetown everything is known. 
Every porter on the station would know that he was a 
released convict. 

The journey up was occupied with dreams. Dreams, 
and hope and” fear, and wild anticipations. Where should 
he go ? His wife had no house now in town, and he didn’t 


54 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


know where she was, nor where the boy was. Oh, if he 
could only find Ralph ! 

He arrived at Paddington late in the afternoon and 
wandered around the streets adjoining the station. Every¬ 
thing seemed incredibly noisy and bewildering. News¬ 
paper placards were announcing : “ Fall of French Govern¬ 
ment/' How futile and unimportant l Didn’t they 
realize that the only important thing was: “ Release of 
Raymond Calverley ! ” He would have been forgotten by 
now, although at one time his name had been very much 
in the public eye. At last he found a dingy little hotel in 
an obscure street, where he engaged a room. Then he had 
some tea and wandered the streets again, haunted by the 
vague idea that he might find Ralph. He went up to the 
West End and strolled down Regent Street, Piccadilly, and 
Mayfair. At the corner of Jermyn Street he met a man 
with whom he had done a lot of business in the past, an 
old club-fellow. He touched his arm and said : 

“ Hullo, Frank ! ” 

The man turned and looked at him. An extraordinary 
scared expression came over his face. His eyes distended, 
as though he were staring at some strange and dangerous 
animal. He managed to say : 

“ Ho—yes, it’s—Calverley, isn’t it ? ” 

“ Yes. How are you ? ” 

‘ ‘ All right. And you ? You—er-’ ’ 

“ Yes, I’m free again.” 

He tried to smile, but the other man’s terrified mien 
froze the smile upon his lips. His expression seemed to 
say: 

“ How on earth am I to escape from this awful predica¬ 
ment ? ” 

They exchanged a few banal remarks, and parted, 
without any reference to the past, or suggestions for the 
future. As he walked away Raymond winced. 

“ So that’s to be it, is it! ” he thought. 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


55 


The restaurants were crowded with gay diners. If he 
cared to, he could enter any one of them. He was free. He 
could mingle with his fellows, and buy rich foods and good 
wines. But he felt no such inclination. It was too late. 
He was not accustomed to feeding after five o’clock. He 
did not feel hungry, and drink he knew would upset him. 
Moreover, his experience with his old business colleague 
damped his enthusiasm for social life. He might meet 
others who would treat him in the same way. How could 
he expect them to know that he was no longer a criminal ? 
that his mind had been purged of its weakness and self- 
indulgence ? 

He wandered about till nine o’clock when a great sense 
of melancholy and exhaustion overcame him. He went 
back to his hotel, and to bed. They had given him a room 
at the end of a dimly-lighted corridor on the second floor. 
He slept soundly till dawn, when he emerged through a 
tangled skein of dreams to consciousness. It was as though 
his own dreams were happy ones, but that they were 
eternally interrupted by the evil dreams of others. He 
washed and dressed, and finding that it was too early to 
obtain breakfast in the hotel, he went out to a coffee stall. 
He stood there drinking hot weak coffee, and eating hard- 
boiled eggs, and listening to a slightly inebriated gentleman 
in evening dress talking to two cabmen about God. The 
cabmen were laughing, and the coffee stall-keeper was 
joining in the argument earnestly. The morning air had 
a tang of hope and defiance. He took a hand in the 
argument and found himself laughing too. In this company 
he was happy and at home. No one knew him or cared. 
In the old days of his prosperity he had spent many a 
happy hour at a coffee stall. Here was something that had 
not changed . . . flotsam and jetsam seeking good-fellow¬ 
ship at the board of abstract argument. When the 
inebriated gentleman and the cabmen had departed he felt 
fortified to face his day’s campaign. 


56 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


In the uncertainty of his position he found one tangible 
spot —his wife’s lawyers. They would know of her where¬ 
abouts and probably of Ralph’s. He had been informed 
of "their address, and of the fact that they were empowered 
to*pay him twenty-five pounds a month until further notice. 
He wandered the streets again till ten o’clock his eyes 
wistfully seeking, and his heart aching for his son. At 
ten o’clock promptly he presented himself at the office of 
Tidworth, Bates and Mashie in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He 
was kept waiting three-quarters of an hour before being 
shown into the office of an elderly red-faced man, in a white 
waistcoat, who said curtly : 

“ Yes, what is your business ? ” 

“ I want to know if you can tell me the whereabouts of 
my wife, Mrs. Raymond Calverley? ” 

The lawyer looked up quickly, his face expressing a kind 
of greedy morbid interest. It had something of the 
expression of his business friend of the night before, only 
less furtive. The lawyer was in no panic to get away. 
He had power on his side, and he was prepared to take a 
certain amount of cynical-enjoyment out of it. He coughed 
and said: 

“ Oh, so you are Raymond Calverley. Will you please 
show me your discharge ? I understand that I am to—er— 
make you a remittance. What is your address ? ” 

Raymond was patient during the formalities. When they 
were completed he repeated his first question. The lawyer 
took a long time to say : 

“ I’m afraid I am not empowered by my client to give 
you any such information.” 

Damn the man l Why did he call her “ my client ” and 
not “ your wife ” ? Was the stigma of prison life to rob 
him for ever of even the social amenities ? Not even to 
know where she lived ? There flashed through his mind 
a sudden vision of a night when the nightingales sang in a 
Devonshire garden and the swift avowal of love passed 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


57 


from lip to lip. Could love like that die utterly ? Could 
passion vanish upon the wind, like the skeleton of a dead 
leaf ? He repeated inanely : 

“ Your client. Your client. I see.” Then with greater 
vehemence : 

“ Perhaps then you can give me the address of my son ? ” 

The lawyer was enjoying the spectacle of his helplessness. 
He shrugged his shoulders. 

“ I’m afraid I cannot even give you that information.” 

Raymond saw red. 

“ Damn you ! ” he screamed. “ He’s my boy. He’s as 
much my boy as hers—more, I tell you. Who the devil 
are you to hold my son from me ? ” 

“ You are a little unstrung, Mr. Calverley.” 

“ Unstrung ! If you had been five-and-a-quarter years 
in prison—five thousand years in prison—your heart 
aching all the time for your boy—and the day you are 
released some stranger tells you that he will not tell you 
where he is—wouldn’t you be unstrung ? ” 

The lawyer replied in dead level tones : 

“ I cannot tell where your son is, because—I do not 
know.” 

“ You do not know ! ” 

“ No, sir, I do not know.” 

Raymond gave a whine, like a dog that has been struck. 
He groped for his hat upon the table. As he did so his 
eye alighted on a pile of correspondence. One letter was 
projecting a little from the rest. It was headed: Hotel 
Marguerita. Pau. Just below was the top of a capital D. 
He recognised it as the way Kathleen formed this letter. 
His face betrayed no recognition. He stumbled from the 
room. 

He would telegraph to Kathleen. Would she still be 
there ? The world seemed terribly harsh. His mind was 
constantly irrupted by visions of Dartmoor, and strangely 
enough they were not unfriendly visions. Dolling, who was 

E 


58 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


serving twelve years for manslaughter, and with whom he 
had had many whispered chats in the carpenter’s shop— 
Dolling would be missing him. Two young warders, 
Garrod and Purvis, both had done him innumerable petty 
services. The moors would be grand under this mottled 
sky . . . some queer pull about the place . . . when you’re 
utterly lonely. 

He went to a post office and sent a telegram to his wife 
at Pau. He said : 

“ Am at Bond’s hotel Paddington where is Ralph.” 

He tried to think of any friend he could go to in the 
meantime. He reviewed his old life and it seemed to 
reflect—clubs and pubs! He could never get into a club 
again, and pubs did not attract him. The illusory nature 
of friendships made in this way became clear to him. He 
would have to go abroad—America perhaps. If only he 
could find Ralph! 

He waited for three days, and no telegram came from 
Kathleen. He wandered the streets and sat in public 
libraries, reading the newspapers and magazines, and trying 
to adj ust his mind to the social question. Human activities 
as recorded in these productions appeared to him com¬ 
plicated and futile. In the old days he had not seen them 
in this light. Perhaps he had not troubled to think about 
them. He had just accepted things as they were. Upon 
one matter he made up his mind definitely—he would find 
work. He would not go on accepting his wife’s money in 
this ignominious manner. 

On the third day he decided to go down to Ashtree, the 
village in Suffolk, where Ralph spent part of his time with 
the tutor. It was strange that the boy had made no effort 
to see him. 

He arrived at Ashtree at dusk and left his bag at the 
local inn. He then asked for the house of Mr. Flanders, 
the tutor. With considerable difficulty he found it. It 
was over a mile from the village. His heart was beating 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 59 

violently when he rang the bell. A servant opened the 
door. 

“ Is Mr. Flanders in ? ” 

“Yes, sir, what name ? ” 

“ Mr. Calverley.” 

She looked at him a little queerly, but showed him into 
a sitting-room. In a few moments a thin elderly man 
entered the room. He started at sight of his visitor, and 
exclaimed: 

“ Oh, I thought it was-” 

Then he stopped and scrutinized Raymond keenly. 

“ I came to ask after my son.” 

The elder man appeared very surprised. He stammered 
slightly. 

“ Your son ? Your son ? Yes. Yes, of course, your 
son. But he went up to London. He went up to—er— 
meet you, I understand.” 

“ To meet me ! but I haven’t seen him. I expected 
him.” 

“ H'm. Very strange, Mr. Calverley. I’m afraid I can’t 
help you.” 

This respectable tutor, whom only poverty had driven to 
accept the tutelage of the son of a convict, was obviously 
anxious to be rid of the dilemma. With a few formal 
expressions of regret they parted. Raymond returned to 
the inn, and found that there was no train back to London 
that night. 

He slept fitfully. What had happened to Ralph ? Fear 
gripped him. He visualized all kinds of terrible things 
happening to the boy—accidents. The cup and the lip 
... oh, the grim irony of it! After living that eternity 
and then on the very day of his release—a skidding car 
perhaps, a train smash, a fall. At that moment Ralph 
might lie groaning in a hospital, calling for him. There 
was only one gleam of brightness in his sombre reflections 
—Ralph had meant to meet him. The tutor had said that 


60 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


hepiad gone to London on purpose. Freedom is a fine thing, 
butlove is greater than freedom. Indeed, freedom without 
love is a negative endurance. Before the dawn broke he 
had designed plans to find his son. He would enquire at 
the police stations and hospitals. He would put an ad¬ 
vertisement in the agony column of the Times. 

And when he arrived in London that was the first thing 
he did. He inserted : 

“ To Ralph Calverley. Am at Bond’s Hotel, Paddington. 
Father.” 

He then rang up the police stations and hospitals. No, 
no one answering to the description of his son had been 
heard of. 

He walked the streets disconsolately. London suddenly 
became a city of menace and despair. The people appeared 
hard-featured and cruel, beasts of prey stalking their 
victims, utterly indifferent to the feelings and passions of 
each other. The drone of the traffic was like the whirring 
of some great machine, grinding the bones and blood of 
men and women into a colourless pulp. He had never 
felt so lonely in his cell at Dartmoor. 

Backwards and forwards between his hotel and the 
police station he walked for several days. No answer came 
to the advertisement in the Times. 

One afternoon passing down a meagre street off the 
Edgware Road, he saw a poor bedraggled woman weeping 
on another’s bosom. 

As he passed he heard her say : 

“ The y ’im ’cause ’e was out of work and stole for 
us. And now they’re turning us out—me and the five kids. 
What are we going to do ? Oh, my Gawd ! ” 

And he heard the other woman, who was also poorly 
but rather flashily dressed, one who wanders the streets, 
glancing obliquely—he heard her say : 

“ Sorl right, Annie, don’t you worry. I'll earn money 
for yer. I’ll keep yer goin’ till things get brighter.” 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


61 


Without a second’s hesitation Raymond dived his hand 
into his pocket and drew out all the money he had on him, 
nearly two pounds. He thrust it into the hands of the 
weeping woman. 

“ Go on with this, mother,” he said huskily. 

The woman stared at him, too amazed to speak. The 
other said: 

“ Hullo, who are you ? ” 

And they looked into each other’s eyes, this ex-convict 
and this woman who wandered the streets glancing 
obliquely, and the former said: 

“ I’m like you. I’m one of the lonely ones.” 

And he hurried away. Back in his hotel, he went up to 
his room and sat on the edge of his bed, as he had sat on 
the edge of his bed in that cell at Dartmoor, pondering, 
pondering ... It was dusk. The working parties would 
be returning from the quarries. There would be whispered 
talks together, glints of light from the governor’s house, 
the drone of the organ in the chapel. . . someone practising 
for to-morrow’s service. 

“ Lead Kindly Light 
Amidst the encircling gloom.” 

Oh, the weariness of it all! the injustice ! His heart 
throbbed to the beat of that haunting melody. In a grey 
vision he seemed to see an endless procession walking, two 
and two, to the slow measure of that hymn—all the unhappy 
in the world, the outcast, and the weak. His breast was 
choked with sobs. He gripped the coverlet of the bed 
and muttered : 

“ Ralph ! Ralph 1 oh, my boy, my little boy I ” 

The room grew darker, outside the traffic still roared 
relentlessly. He was about to throw himself on the bed, 
when the door opened quietly. A figure glided in and 
stood with its back to it. He peered forward, and saw 
a white ghostly face with hollow eyes, regarding him 


62 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


fearfully. He tried to stand up but fell back weakly on 
the bed. The figure said : 

“ Is that you, father ? ” 

He stretched out his hands and groaned. The figure came 
nearer, and then shrank back again to the door. Raymond 
forced himself to rise. He beat the air with his arms, as 
though fearful that there were forces at work trying to 
keep him from his son. 

“ Ralph ! Ralph ! oh, my boy, my little boy ! ” 

And as he advanced so did the other shrink back 
further* 

His voice, husky with passion, called out: 

Ralph I Ralph! you’re not ashamed of your old 
father ? ” 

And still the figure cowered furtively by the door. He 
went close up and peered into his son’s eyes. 

“ What is it, Ralph ? What’s the matter ? My God ! 
you look as though it was you who had committed a crime 
and not I.” 

The figure still seemed to be warding him off and the 
voice said faintly: 

“ It is I who have committed a crime.” 

And then the tension broke. The boy sobbed, and the 
father held him in his arms at last. 

" What is it, Ralph ? Teh me. Teh your father, boy. 
Who should not hear of it if not I ? ” 

“ For God’s sake let me sit down. I’m so tired. I’ve 
been wandering all night. I saw your advertisement 
this morning. And even then I could not make up my 
mind to come. I’m so ashamed.” 

“Ashamed! Am I so pure? Am I likely not to 
forgive—not to understand my son ? ” 

The boy buried his face in his hands and spoke between 
his fingers. 

“ Fve been Fving foolishly, father, oh ! for years now. 
Mother spoilt me, gave me lots of money. I got into a 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


68 


funny crowd—betting, drinking, women. She paid my 
debts again and again. Last Tuesday Lcame up from 
Ashtree. I had meant to go down to Dartmoor and meet 
you at the prison gates. But in the afternoon I met Reggie 
de Tourneville. He was staying at the Grand Eclipse 
Hotel He asked me to dine with him; then we went 
up to his room and had a few drinks. Afterwards we 
went on to some funny joint at Knightsbridge and played 
cards. There were a crowd of people there and we played 
baccarat, I won a hundred pounds in about twenty 
minutes With the excitement of that and the wine I had 
drunk I simply went off the deep end. I thought I couldn’t 
lose. I plunged wildly. I loved the excitement, people 
watching me, pretty women, you know, and all that kind of 
thing. Then of course I began to lose. My luck varied 
but at about one in the morning I had lost four hundred 
pounds. I hadn’t got it in the world. I had borrowed 
a hundred and fifty from Reggie. I didn’t know where 
mother was. Besides, she had helped me out so often. 
She had left Pau. I think she was on her way home. 1 
hadn’t enough left to pay my hotel bill or the fare down 
to Dartmoor. I woke up the next morning feeling awful 
I wandered about the streets wondering what to do. And 

then I—I-” . 

The father’s breath was coming m little stabs. 

“ Yes, Ralph, what did you do, boy ? ” 

“ Oh I mucked the whole day away. I hadn t the 
the courage. It was the next day I did it, the day you 
came out of prison, and I never met you Reggie had 
treated me badly, I think. He woifldn t lend me any 
more. I’m not sure the whole thing wasn t a plant. They 
got me there. There were other young chaps, too Any 
way, I kept on thinking of Reggie’s room at the Grand 
Eclipse. When he lent me the money he had gone to a 
box which he kept locked up in a trunk. It was stuffed with 
notes. Late in the evening of that day I yielded to temp- 


64 THE DARK CORRIDOR 


tation. Reggie had gone out to dinner. I went up to 
one of the clerks downstairs and said casually: 

‘ Key of Number 141, please/ You know what those 
big hotels are. Nobody knows anything about anyone. 
There are dozens of clerks. He gave me the key. I went 
up by the stairs, and into his room. I forced the lock of 
the trunk with a poker, but I couldn’t force the lock of 
the box. So I simply wrapped it up in paper and took it 
away. I took it back to my hotel. Then I borrowed a 
screwdriver and some pincers. I got it open somehow. 
Oh, God! what have I done ? There were bonds and 
papers and all kinds of things and nearly three hundred 
pounds in cash. I never meant to take all that. I just 
wanted enough to carry on with.” 

“ What have you done with it ? ” whispered the hoarse 
voice of the father. 

“ I’ve spent some of the money. All the other things 
I ve kept. I left the hotel, of course, and have gone 
to another one South of the river.” 

“ What was the money in ? ” 

“ Treasury notes and fives, tens, and twenties.” 

“ Have you changed any of the big notes ? ” 

“ I've changed one ten.” 

“ You fool [ ” 

“ Why! ” 

(( They 11 trace the number. Where did you change it ? ” 

“ ^ Cook’s. I’ve taken a ticket for Paris to-night ” 
Would anybody at the hotel be likely to identify 
you ? J 


There are over a thousand 


“ That’s what I’m not sure, 
passing through every day.” 

“ R e §gi e will suspect you, of course.” 

He s bound to after what happened. Oh father 

what can I do ? I’m terrified. It means_” 

It was my fault, boy, my crime which led to it I 
should have been here to look after you.” 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


65 


“ No, no, I’ve no excuse. I’m finished. And oh, 
father, I’ve been so yearning to have you back.” 

The young man broke down and wept. Raymond pulled 
himself up. He paced the room for several minutes in 
silence. Then he said tensely : 

“ Ralph, boy, go and fetch me that box.” 

“ Fetch it! Why father ? ” 

“ Listen to me, carefully. This happened on the night 
I came out of prison. Fetch me that box. You did not 
s teal that box, Ralph! ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ These old criminals 1 It’s the same story. It’s in 
the blood. You can do nothing for them. Directly they 
are released they start all over again—the very same day 
sometimes. You’ll read all this in the papers in two days’ 
time.” 

He laughed bitterly, and the young man looked up 
amazed. 

“ You don’t mean to say you’d sacrifice yourself for me 
like that ? Oh, I couldn’t let you do it, father.” 

“ Why not ? If you strolled into an hotel and asked 
for a key and got it, why should not I, an old ex-convict ? 
Besides, I am strong now. I could endure it. I have 
nothing more to live for. Your life is just beginning. 
But, oh, Ralph, boy, promise me-” 

“ No, no, no, father, I should go mad with remorse. 
I couldn't let you . . . oh ! ” 

He gave a low scream of fright for at that moment there 
was a crisp tap on the door. When the door opened the 
father was standing as though at attention on parade, 
the son was cowering against the further wall. In the 
doorway stood Kathleen. They looked at each other, 
but no one spoke. Then she turned and shut the door 
quietly, and stood with her back to it. Her face was 
pale and drawn, and it suddeniy flashed through Raymond 
that in this company of his wife and his son, he was the 


66 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


only one of flesh and blood. In the crisis which was 
about to spring on the three of them, it would be he— 
the ex-convict—who would have to hold the balance. 
Strangely enough she turned to him first, and her voice 
was gentle. She said : 

“ You are free, then, Raymond. I saw your advertise¬ 
ment, and I came to find out what it’s all about. I arrived 
in England yesterday.” 

He bowed his head. 

“Iam free,” he answered, “ but I'm afraid not for long.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ I have already got into mischief again.” 

The boy jumped up. 

“ It’s a He, mother. He is trying to shield me. I stole 
some money the day he came out, and he wants to make 
out it was he.” 

Kathleen’s eyes glittered and a tear came into them. 

“ Ralph ! Ralph ! don’t tell me this is true.” 

The boy swept to her and flung his arms around her. 

“ Oh, mother, save me. What am I to do ? They’ll 
catch me. I know they’ll catch me. I’ve taken a ticket 
for Paris, but there’ll be a man waiting there. He’ll tap 
me on the shoulder. I’ve seen it all a hundred times these 
last few days.” 

“ Why did you do this, Ralph ? Have I not helped 
you before ? I prayed to you to be less extravagant, but 
you know I would have helped you again rather than-” 

She buried her face in her hands and wept. 

“ Oh, dear God! My husband and then my son, both— ” 

Raymond went to her and grasped her shoulders. 

“ Kathleen, it is only through the eyes of suffering that 
one sees things clearly and sees them whole. I have suffered 
and I have learnt to see. It is the life of ease that dulls 
one and breeds temptation. Give this boy a chance. 
You have given him everything else, but they have 
always been the wrong things. Don’t let him go to Paris, 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


07 


let him go to where there are great open spaces, and life 
is a battle to survive. As for this money, what does it 
matter to me ? I have accustomed myself to prison 
life. I shall be an old ‘ lag * in time, one who probably 
prefers prison life to freedom.” 

A queer expression crept over Kathleen’s face as she 
regarded her husband. She said simply : 

“ You have changed, Raymond.” 

They were summng up in each other the toll of those 
five years. His hair had turned quite grey, but his figure 
was firmer and more erect, his eye clearer, and his skin 
healthier. She had become more fragile, her face 
paler, but she was still a beautiful woman. She turned 
suddenly to Ralph and said : 

“ Whom did you steal this money from ? ” 

“ Reggie de Tourneville.” 

Kathleen started, and her figure appeared to sway. 

“ Reggie de Tourneville ! ” 

She put her hand to her bosom. 

“Wait . . . wait ...” she muttered. “ Reggie de 
Tourneville ! Indeed ! ” 

She seated herself and pondered. At last she said : 

“ Ralph, do you love your mother ? ” 

“ Mother, how can you ask ? ” 

“ Kiss me, dear.” 

Ralph flung his arms around her and kissed her. She 
sighed contentedly. 

“ Now,” she said, “ you wait here, you two. I know 
Reggie de Tourneville. I have an idea I can settle this 
affair with him.” 

“No, no, mother, you mustn’t demean yourself to that 
swine. He will only snub you, be rude to you. He has 
an awful reputation in every way. He’s rich too, you 
can’t buy him off.” 

“ I can try. Wait for me, I may be some time. Do 
not move from this room.” 


68 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


And before they could protest she had gone. 

The night was cold, and the wind and rain battered 
against the window panes of the little room. Father 
and son sat, one on the bed, the other on a chair, listening 
and waiting. There seemed to be nothing to say in this 
fateful interlude, or there was so much to say that their 
strained voices would make it seem unreal. The boat 
train to Paris went, and the dinner hour came and went. 
It was nine o’clock and Ralph said : 

“ She’s a long time, father.” 

“ Yes . . . yes, she’s a long time.” 

Raymond was indeed restless and nervous, and some¬ 
times he would jump up and pace the room. Ralph 
lighted a cigarette and offered his father one, but the 
latter would not take it. The room got colder and colder. 
At a quarter past ten Ralph said peevishly : 

“ What’s she doing, father ? She’s an awful long time.” 

And Raymond replied a little hysterically : 

“ She’s settling up ! She’s settling up ! ” 

And about every ten minutes Ralph would exclaim : 

“ I wonder where she is. What is she doing, father ? 
Why doesn’t she hurry up ? ” 

And Raymond had no response to make. 

Came eleven o’clock, half past, a quarter to twelve, 
midnight, and still the two men sat there feverishly waiting. 
The ghosts in this meagre hotel had all retired. At a 
quarter past twelve Ralph was repeating his litany: 

“ What is she doing ? Why doesn’t she come, father ? ” 
when the latter suddenly exclaimed irritably : 

“ The parents sacrifice themselves for the children. 
And then the children grow up and sacrifice themselves 
for their children and so it goes on. The story of life is 
an epic of suffering and sacrifice. Birth is the tyrant.” 
Then he lapsed into silence. 

At a quarter to one Ralph exclaimed : “ Listen.” 

There were footsteps in the corridor outside. The door 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


69 


opened and Kathleen stood once more before them. Her 
face was pale except for a spot in the centre of the cheeks, 
as though they had been slightly rouged. Her eyes sunk 
in their dark hollows, had an unnatural glitter. She sat 
down limply at the foot of the bed. The boy, his voice 
sounding reedy and thin, called out: 

“WeU? Well?” 

Speaking quietly and with perfect control, Kathleen said: 

“ To-morrow morning, Ralph, you will send that box back 
to Reggie de Toumeville, with all the bonds and papers. 
The money I have settled about. I think your father is 
right. I think it would be good for you to go away for a 
time, to Canada perhaps.” 

“ Canada! ” 

“ I have been thinking about it, coming back in the cab. 
All these years that your father has—has been away, I have 
treated you too indulgently. I have perhaps been too 
indulgent myself. One’s moral fibre slackens.” 

She gave a little sob, and the son threw his arms around 
her. 

“ Oh, mother, I will do anything you tell me.” 

She stroked his hair and whispered : 

“ There, there, dear, let us forget all about it, and start 
again. Now go. I want to speak to your father alone.” 

The boy embraced them both, then picked up his hat, 
and stumbled from the room. 

Raymond waited for his wife to speak, but she sat there 
looking down at her hands upon her lap. At last he said : 

“ Well, Kathleen, what have you to say to me ? ” 

“I’m very, very tired, Raymond.” 

He went up to her and kissed her lightly on the temple. 

“ Is that all, my dear ? ” 

“No, can’t you feel there’s something more ? ” 

He gripped her shoulders firmly. 

“ Kathleen, is it possible . . . would you after all—take 
me back ? ” 


70 


THE DARK CORRIDOR 


She whispered almost inaudibly : 

“ If you think I’m worthy of you.” 

The ex-convict laughed bitterly. 

“ We all have things to regret, Kathleen . . . Ralph 
and I and even you, perhaps. The fiercest joy is to know 
that one has someone to suffer for, someone who can make 
one suffer. During the last few days I have experienced 
the appalling loneliness of the crowded streets. But if 
you put your ear to the ground you hear the eternal rumble 
of pity passing from heart to heart. Only to-day I heard 
a woman offering to sacrifice herself for another. Even in 
prison I found this. It is the only Jhing that makes life 
worth while.” 

“ Oh, Raymond, I was terrified of you returning from 
prison. I thought you would look criminal and bitter, but 
somehow you look finer. Come, give me your strong arms. 
I am so weary.” 

He crushed her to him and murmured : 

“ I will come for you to-morrow, dear.” 

For several minutes they clung to each other. Then he 
led her to the door, and opened it. 

“ The corridor is dark,” she whispered, 

He took her hand and whispered back: 

“ Yes, it is dark, but there is a light at the end. And if 
we hold each other’s hands tightly we will find a way.” 


THE KIDNAPPED “ GENERAL ” 


Jim Parker and I climbed a stile, walked a hundred yards 
along a sandy road, and came out on to a glorious common. 
The common was dotted with clumps of furze, gorse bushes, 
and beeches. Here and there a sandy pit broke the normal 
level of the landscape. 

The origin of these weekly rambles of ours had been a 
mutual antipathy to golf. Paying the usual physical 
penalties of men who lead sedentary lives, we had each been 
advised by different doctors “ to take up golf.” Now golf 
may be an excellent game- 

I'm not going to argue about it. We did experiment, and 
lost an enormous number of balls in an incredibly short 
space of time, but the insistent admonition : “ Ah, old man, 
what you ought to do is to play golf,” got on our nerves. 
We met in solemn conclave, and vowed that we would not 
be bullied into playing golf. Eventually we decided to 
absorb the benefits of golf without undergoing the nervous 
strain of chasing that absurd little white ball. 

We rambled far afield. On this occasion we were just 
over the border in Buckinghamshire. Jim Parker sighed. 

“ I wonder they haven’t turned this into one of their 
beastly golf courses,” he said. 

“ Touch wood,” I answered. “ We're not across it yet.” 
But no, there was no golf course on this nameless common. 
It was a delightful and deserted spot. We walked across 
it for half a mile, when we came to a kind of dingle formed 
by the opening into a long, narrow sand-pit. We were just 
passing it when Jim remarked : 

7i 


72 


THE KIDNAPPED “ GENERAL ” 


“ There’s a queer habitation for you ! ” 

I looked in the direction his stick was pointing, and 
beheld lialf-way up the dingle an odd-looking shanty in 
red and white. 

“ Um," I answered. “ Let’s go and have a look at it.” 

We entered the dingle and approached the rustic dwelling. 
At first it appeared to be a double-storeyed cabin painted 
rather gaily, with pots of flowers hanging from a balcony. 
On closer inspection the truth became apparent. On the 
lower part of the dwelling, dim but quite perceptible, was 
the word “ General.” It was an old converted “ General ” 
motor-bus ! The owner had certainly been rather clever 
about it. The wheels had either been removed or were 
buried in the sand. The lower part remained practically 
intact, except for a surrounding wooden platform. The 
upper part had been roofed in with timber, and a balcony 
built out, supported by wooden posts. The woodwork was 
painted white ; there were chintz curtains at the windows, 
and flowers in profusion in pots and tubs. A gay little 
dwelling. It was, I suppose, deplorably bad manners for 
Jim Parker and me to stand there and laugh. But there 
was something about the association of the “ General ” with 
this obscure and picturesque retreat that was irresistible. 
We were still laughing when a man came out on to the lower 
platform and regarded us. He was a tall, strongly-built 
man, with a neat, pointed brown beard, close-cropped hair 
turning grey, cold blue eyes, and the skin of a man who 
lives in the open. He bowed to us gravely, and said: 

“ Good morning, gentlemen.” 

We pulled ourselves together and responded. Then he 
added: 

“ I presume they have sent you from the inn to hear the 
story of the kidnapped General ? ” 

It was the time of day when it was pleasant to hear that 
there was an inn in the offing, but we explained that we had 
come from the opposite direction, and that we were merely 


THE KIDNAPPED “GENERAL” 


73 


explorers, trying to escape from the tyranny of social 
custom. We had no intention of invading his privacy, but 
nevertheless the story of the kidnapped Generabpromised 
an entertaining diversion. 

“ Come and sit on this bench in the shade,” said the 
sturdy individual. “ I regret I have no liquid refreshment 

to offer you, other than water. My medical advisers-” 

He waved his hand in the direction of the dwelling as though 
the position explained itself. We all sat down and lighted 
our pipes. 

“ My name is McGregor,” he said quite simply—• 
“ William McGregor, but the story of the kidnapped General 
circles round the character of one Ronny Skinner—Captain 
Ronald Skinner of the Royal Engineers. Skinner his name 
was, but the boys called him Grinner. He was that— 
essentially. He was a man who grinned through life. He 
grinned through triumph and through disaster. He grinned 
through battle and when things went wrong. He grinned 
even when he was bullied or betrayed. He was an ir¬ 
repressible grinner. A stocky, merry, jolly chunk of a 
man who never had any luck, except that he always 
managed to escape with his life. His war record would 
probably bore you, it was like so many others. He was up 
to his neck in it the first week, temporarily attached to 
the R.F.A. as a motor-bike despatch rider. He was a 
wonderful chauffeur, and could drive any car. You may 
remember at that time they sent the despatch riders out in 
couples, one without lights carrying the despatches, the 
other lighted up as a decoy. Ronny was always the decoy. 
The war had only been on for five weeks when one night a 
shell blew his front wheel to pieces. He was captured by 
the Germans. He spent nine months in a concentration 
camp at Cassel. I believe he even grinned there. And 
then one day he and another man escaped, and got across 
the border into Switzerland. He reported and went back 
into the line. Does this bore you ? ” 

F 


74 


THE KIDNAPPED “ GENERAL ” 


“ Not at all—most interesting,” Jim Parker and I both 
interjected. 

“ He was over a year in Belgium, and he grinned when 
they removed a piece of shrapnel from the fleshy part of 
his thigh. ‘ Dashed lucky it didn’t hit the bone,’ he said. 
He grinned when they sent him to Salonika, and kept him 
hanging about for nine months in a fever-stricken marsh, 
playing football and cracking lice in his shirt. He even 
grinned in Gallipoli when the flood came and carried all his 
kit away, and he was eaten up by savage flying things and 
poisonous growing things. He didn’t grin much when he 
really got the fever because he was unconscious most of the 
time. But he grinned when he found himself in a clean bed 
at Imbros. ‘ Golly ! this is fine ! ’ he said, and he hurried 
up to get well. He wrote to his girl in England. Did I tell 
you there was a girl ? She was a pretty girl, the daughter 
of a wealthy provision merchant living quite near here. 
They were not officially engaged. He had very little 
money, and he had only just started his career when the 
war came. The father would not sanction it, and there was 
no mother. I can’t tell you what he wrote to her, or what 
she wrote to him. But when her letters came he used to 
grin contentedly, so one assumes the girl was staunch. 
They sent him off to Egypt after that for another sixteen 
months and then back to Blighty. Jemini! didn’t he 
grin when he saw the old white cliffs again! But that 
wasn’t for long, mind you. In another month he was in 
France again. 

“ The fellow went through everything, right up to the 
retreat in March, 1918, and then the turn of the tide in July. 
Except for that one wound in his thigh he was never 
touched. When the end came he was in the army of 
occupation on the Rhine, grinning at the Boche house¬ 
wives, and helping them hang out their clothes to air. 
And then they demobbed him and sent him back to Eng¬ 
land. In the meantime his father, who was an architectural 


THE KIDNAPPED “ GENERAL ” 


75 


sculptor, was ruined by the war. The old man had gone 
bankrupt, and was living with a married sister, not much 
better off than himself. There was no one to help the boy. 

“ When the war started Ronny was nineteen. He was 
now nearly twenty-five, and he had had no training. He 
could do nothing except drive a car. London was flooded 
with unemployed ex-service men who could drive cars. 
He had to get a job anyway, and he went about grinning 
into all kinds of offices and warehouses. Nobody wanted 
him. The war was over, and the great need now was 
economy and retrenchment. The girl was still writing to 
him, and so he went on grinning and hoping. But the 
girl’s father forbade him to enter the house. He had made 
a lot of money during the war, and he wasn’t going to 
have his daughter thrown away on a penniless, out-of- 
work loafer. His God, no, he wasn’t. 

“ I don’t know how Skinner eventually managed to get 
the job he did. Things must have been getting pretty 
desperate, but one day he blossomed out into a beautiful 
blue uniform with white piping and large black buttons. 
He was a driver on a London General motor-bus. And 
there he was sitting up in his box, grinning for all he was 
worth, responding to the clang of the bell, swerving through 
the traffic in a most skilful way. The company recognized 
that he was a good driver, and he was very popular in the 
yard among the other men. One day he received quite a 
promotion. There was a special motor-bus that used to 
leave South Hampstead at five minutes to nine in the 
morning and run express to the City—no stop. They 
charged a shilling per skull for the trip, and it was very 
popular amongst stockbrokers and City merchants. The 
’bus was always full, and the men were allowed to smoke 
inside. There was an express return journey in the evening 
at five-thirty. To Ronny Skinner fell the great honour of 
driving this ’bus. The conductor was a man named Eyles, 
and they were great pals.” 


76 


THE KIDNAPPED “ GENERAL ” 


Mr. McGregor paused and looked at us, as though anxious 
to check the impression of his story on our faces. The 
impression apparently satisfied him, for he proceeded. 

“I am now coming to the amazing crisis of this affair, 
which, although not kept secret, was never satisfactorily 
treated, or truthfully chronicled in the Press. It is not 
altogether surprising. Accounts varied, and when reported 
they usually appeared so incredible that cautious sub¬ 
editors were afraid of their papers'being ridiculed. I was 
one of the few people who knew the truth, and even I never 
knew the whole truth. I have already told you that there 
was a woman in the case. 

“ Ronny Skinner drove that 'bus every day for just on 
four months. Every day there was almost identically the 
same crowd of men. They rushed up a few minutes before 
it started, with their newspapers and despatch-cases and 
pipes. They scrambled for the best seats, talked to each 
other or read their newspapers all the way down. They 
paid their shillings to the conductor but no one took the 
slightest notice of the driver. I don't think any of them 
would have recognized him. The 'bus always started to 
the minute and arrived to the minute. There was never a 
hitch or an accident of any sort. And yet one day during 
the first week of July Skinner received a week's notice. 
No reason was given. The notice merely stated that his 
services would not be required after the following Friday. 
The truth was that one of the directors of the company had 
written to the manager to say that a job had got to be 
found for a chauffeur who was in his employ, and whom he 
wanted to get rid of. This story got round. When 
Ronny heard it, he grinned and said : ‘ Oh, well, I'll have 
to look out for something else. That’s all!' He’d been 
through the war, you see. ... Now, one thing which 
affects this story is a letter he received a few days later. 
It will be better if I don’t tell you about this till later on. 
All that week Ronny grinned, and grinned, and grinned. 


THE KIDNAPPED “ GENERAL 55 


77 


There never was such a grin. And one night after the last 
trip he took Eyles out, and they went down town and did 
themselves well. The morning of his last day was a 
glorious summer’s day, just like this, gentlemen. The ’bus 
was there outside Finchley Road Station twenty minutes 
before its time, with Skinner and Eyles already aboard. 
The stockbrokers and City merchants began to assemble. 
It was a very full load, and not only was it full inside and 
out, but there were five standing up. 

“ Five minutes to nine—clang went the bell! Grrh ! 
Grrh 1 went the starter. She was off. The stockbrokers 
started their usual early morning badinage, papers rustled, 
cigar smoke curled upwards. Everything was delightfully 
as usual. The ’bus went along at its usual pace past Swiss 
Cottage. A little farther on it took a turning to the right 
down-hill. 

“ ‘ How provoking 1 ’ said the manager of a chain of 
tea-shops. ‘ I suppose the road is up.’ Several of the 
others looked equally provoked, but no one was unduly 
alarmed. At the end of a few minutes, however, a curious 
sense of misgiving crept over the company. The ’bus had 
taken another turning to the right and was going back in 
the direction from which it had come 1 

“ Exclamations were flying around ‘What’s the 
matter ? ’ ‘ Why is he doing this ? ’ ‘ Here, ring the 

bell.’ Eyles was appealed to, but he only looked bewil¬ 
dered. He rang the bell. No notice was taken of it. 
Some of them tapped on the glass, but all they could see 
was Skinner’s face, grinning furiously. 

“ In five minutes’ time they were nearly a mile out of 
their course, and making for somewhere west of Golder s 
Green. The stockbrokers and City merchants began to 
get seriously alarmed. It was not only that the bus was 
out of its course, but it was being driven recklessly. It 
hardly slackened pace to go round corners. When im¬ 
peded it dashed along on the wrong side of the road; ; it 


78 


THE KIDNAPPED 44 GENERAL ” 


lurched through the traffic regardless of consequences. 
At one corner a policeman held up his hand to stop it, but 
the bus swerved past him, and at the last second he suc¬ 
cumbed to the popular slogan of ‘ Safety First * and leapt 
out of the way. After that the ’bus went off the beaten 
track. It raced along side-streets, and was already getting 
out into the country. Now, I want you to get firmly fixed 
in your mind’s eye the picture of that company of gentlemen 
being whirled away from their lawful occasions. I could 
give you the details of several specific cases. There was 
for instance, the chief cashier of a banking establishment in 
Lombard Street. He had the keys of the strong-room on 
him. It meant that the bank could do no business until 
he turned up. There was a barrister who had to defend 
a fraudulent company promoter at the Old Bailey at 
eleven o’clock. There was another man with six hundred 
and fifty pounds in cash in a bag. He had to pay off a 
ship’s company down at Tilbury Docks at ten-thirty. The 
manager of the chain of tea-shops had to meet his directors 
at Cannon Street Hotel at ten, and render his annual 
report. There were innumerable board meeting appoint¬ 
ments, business appointments, urgent affairs to be settled 
that morning, stocks to be disposed of, shares bought, 
certainties to be acted on, not even bookmakers to be over¬ 
looked, and here they all were rushing out into the country 
captive to the bow and spear (or shall we say wheel and 
lever ?) of a madman ! 

“ Englishmen as a rule have the reputation of taking 
this kind of adventure philosophically, but there was an 
element of outrage about this performance which infuriated 
them. Liberty of the subject indeed ! It'was the sudden 
realization of their utter helplessness which led to a con¬ 
dition of pandemonium. All they could do was to ring 
the bell furiously all the time, bang on the window, and 
yell out. Stop ! Stop ! ’ The men on top were no 
better off. They tried to get at the driver, but he is pro- 


THE KIDNAPPED “ GENERAL ” 79 

tected by a solid canopy. They could not even see him. 
They began to yell out to the passers-by, but the noise was 
so uproarious and confused, the passers-by merely thought 
it was some picnic or excursion party cheering, and they 
cheered back in response and waved their hats. The mad 
thing got right away into the country. Eyles was being 
bullied and badgered, but he merely continued to look 
bewildered and to mutter, ‘ I don’t know what’s the matter 
with the chap. I can’t stop him.’ Some of the passengers 
crowded the back-board with the idea of leaping off if the 
’bus slackened its pace at all, but it never went slow enough 
for that. There was nothing to do but bawl, and yell, and 
argue. Jagged nerves led to internal dissensions. One 
man wanted to smash the window and knock the driver 
over the head, and when it was pointed out to him that 
such an action would almost inevitably lead to a wreck of 
the ’bus, or in any case to a very bad accident, he wanted 
to fight his opponents, and was only prevented from carry¬ 
ing out his project by being held down on the floor. 

“ The ’bus was scheduled to carry twenty-two passengers 
inside and twenty-four out. In addition to this were the 
five straphangers inside, making a total of fifty-one, of 
whom only three were women, one being the secretary to 
the editor of a financial paper, another a clerk in the 
Admiralty, and the third a lady with a summons to serve 
on a jury The three women were neither better nor worse 
than the forty-eight men. The behaviour of the whole 
crowd of them can only be described as deplorable. 

** j (jo not propose to weary you gentlemen with a 
detailed chronicle of the journey. Once well out into the 
country the grin of Skinner became broader, the venomous 
expression of the passengers more menacing. All their 
business and other appointments had gone by the wind 
They were collectively buoyed up by the anticipation of 
some sort of feral vengeance. They gave up hope of any 
immediate release and simply waited for the mad journey 


80 


THE KIDNAPPED “ GENERAL ” 


to end, as end it must. They rushed along the country 
roads, up and down hills, across commons, through little 
villages, scattering all before them. They ran over three 
fowls, a cat, and two geese. In one village the left mud¬ 
guard struck the wheel of a milk-cart and hurled seventeen 
gallons of good milk into the roadway. These were the 
only tragedies of note. In other respects it was a perfectly 
successful and triumphant ride, reflecting the utmost 
credit on the man at the wheel. Nothing happened, I say, 
until they reached—this common. Coming round the 
bend where you gentlemen came, the car began gradually 
to slow up. When it reached the entrance to this dingle 
it was travelling at rather less than six miles an hour. 
Suddenly it turned, swerved to the left, raced up the dingle, 
and ran nose on into the sand with a pretty considerable 
bump. And there it stuck, and there it remains to this 
day/’ 

Parker and I uttered an exclamation of astonishment, 
and Mr. McGregor paused and critically examined the 
stem of his pipe. 

“ And then ? ” I asked, breathlessly. 

‘ Hats fell off, some of the men were jerked on to the 
floor, but no one was seriously hurt. When they realized 
that the tension was over, they scrambled off that ’bus like 
madmen. In a body they rushed round and bore down on 
the chauffeur. Then an unpleasant surprise awaited them. 
Skinner had already dismounted. He was standing clear 
of the car, with an insolent grin on his face. In either 
hand he held a six-chambered revolver. As the crowd 
approached, he called out: ‘ Stand back !' 

“ Now, a panic-stricken crowd is liable to do all kinds of 
unreasonable things, but there is something about the 
glitter of a shiny little revolver that will steady the most 
rampageous. The stockbrokers and City merchants, 
armed with walking-sticks, newspapers, and despatch- 
cases drew back and wavered. A white-whiskered City 


THE KIDNAPPED “ GENERAL 55 


81 


accountant with heavy gold chains hanging over his 
pendulous stomach bawled out: ‘ What the devil is the 
meaning of this outrage ? * Skinner called out: ‘ Corporal 
Eyles, get all these men and women into line ! ’ There 
was then another disconcerting discovery. Eyles appeared 
from the rear of the ’bus also carrying a six-chamber. He 
drew himself up and saluted Skinner. Skinner acknow¬ 
ledged the salute, and then, turning to the crowd, he said, 

‘ There are fifty-one of you to two of us. With a little 
cohesion it would be possible for you to overcome us, but I 
assure you before that happened eighteen of you gentle¬ 
men would surely die. My friend, Corporal Eyles, who 
was with me during the first battle of the Marne, will now 
get you into line. I will then address you from the top of 
the ’bus.’ A more remarkable sight has surely never been 
seen on an English common. One of the women became 
hysterical and ran away, and she was allowed to go. The 
rest, under cover of Eyles’ revolver, were drawn up in two 
lines of twenty-five. There they all stood, the oddest 
collection of sizes, and ages, and figures, in top-hats, and 
bowler hats, and Trilby hats, with newspapers tucked under 
their arms, holding bags and despatch-cases, and sticks 
and umbrellas. And the birds were singing overhead, 
just as they are to-day, gentlemen, and the bees were 
humming above the gorse. And there was Skinner, still 
in his driver’s uniform, standing commandingly on the 
top of that ridiculous red ’bus. There was a clamour of 
angry protest from those fifty throats, not unmixed with 
jeering and even a little laughter. It became necessary 
for Skinner to flash one of the horrid little revolvers to 
obtain complete silence. When this desirable condition 
had been obtained, he spoke in a loud, ringing voice : 

‘ Ladies and gentlemen, let me relieve your minds at once 
of what I know is the dominant fear that possesses you. 
Eyles and I have not brought you here to rob you. You 
shall return with all your property intact. Our exploit is 


82 


THE KIDNAPPED “ GENERAL ” 


rather a spiritual than a material one. We are doing it for 
your good. If we had not kidnapped you in this way you 
would now all be grinding and grubbing away in the City, 
making money, losing it; planning to make it, planning 
to lose it; contributing nothing of any real importance to 
the human commonweal. And now here you are on a 
lovely common with all the day before you, and the sun 
above your heads. You do not see enough of Nature, you 
do not learn to live, you do not see facts as they are. You 
never give yourselves a chance. Your idea of visiting 
Nature is to motor down to some such place as this, and 
then create for yourselves a miniature arena of all the 
petty, fidgeting conditions of your City lives. You stoop 
over a little white ball. Isn’t that the expression you 
use : “ Keep your eye on the ball ? ” I ask you, gentle¬ 
men, don’t keep your eye on the ball, but keep your eye 
on the stars above you. Soften your hearts, and, when 
you travel, think of the people who drive you ; when you 
labour and profit and play, think of the people who minister 
to your necessities. I have mentioned that there are 
fifty of you to two of us. Well, that represents roughly 
the percentage of the non-combatant element in the Great 
War. Have you already forgotten that there was a great 
war, gentlemen ? Have you already forgotten Eyles and 
me ? or will you forget us to-morrow ? Go, then, all of 
you, wander the fields and commons, and look into your 
hearts. Go, and be damned to you ! * And without the 
slightest hesitation, he turned his revolver on to the crowd 
and fired point-blank into it! 

“ The panic that ensued is indescribable. The old man 
with the white whiskers leapt sideways, jumped, and fell 
into a gorse bush, shot through the heart. No, that is not 
true, but that was the immediate impression. As a matter 
of fact he did fall into a gorse bush, but that was only 
because he caught his foot in a rut. With a wild yell the 
whole company fled helter-skelter out of the dingle and 


THE KIDNAPPED “GENERAL” 


83 


across the common, followed by shot after shot from three 
revolvers. None of them was to know that the three 
revolvers were only loaded with blank cartridges. Was 
there ever such a sight ? Top-hats fell off and were not 
reclaimed, bags and sticks and newspapers were scattered 
hither and thither. Someone with experience yelled out: 
* Scatter I Open out! * They did scatter, they did open 
out. Younger men were racing like the wind. Fat old 
gentlemen were tumbling into sand-pits. The two women 
were screaming and holding on to the men. The common 
was dotted with black figures, ducking, doubling, and 
yelling. No one turned to look back at the assailants. 
No one saw the broad grin on Skinner’s face.” 

Mr. McGregor again paused, and then he remarked 
casually : 

“ We've shifted the position of the old ’bus a little since 
those days, and removed the wheels.” 

“ We ? ” said Parker faintly. 

Mr. McGregor seemed hesitating how to shape the crisis 
of his story. 

“ I have mentioned the letter,” he continued. “ I cannot 
tell you the exact contents of the letter. You see, it was 
one of those sacred missives—a love-letter, and not written 
to me. But this I know. It came from the girl—this 
girl of Skinner’s. Her father had died suddenly, and 
forgotten to make a will. The daughter inherited his 
fortune. I think there was something in it about a special 
licence, something about Paris, something about the 
Italian Lakes. It may seem ironic that a man of Skinner’s 
character should accept money left by a war profiteer. 
On the other hand, it seemed not altogether unfair that 
this money should go back to a man who went through it 
all. I think the girl must have pointed it out to him in 
the letter. He grinned so happily.” 

“ But what happened when the stockbrokers scattered ? ” 
I asked. 


84 


THE KIDNAPPED “ GENERAL ” 


“ Everything was so easy after that. A parcel^of 
clothes—two suits—was produced from beneath the front 
seat of the bus. The two men went behind some bushes in 
the dingle and changed. You see, the reason why Skinner 
had come to this particular common was because the girl 
lived at that little Georgian house just beyond the pine 
trees over there. You can’t see it from here, but it is less 
than ten minutes’ walk away. Thither they both went.” 

“ But we are still mystified, Mr. McGregor,” said Parker, 
noticing that our informant seemed inclined to leave off. 
“ How is it that the ’bus is still here ? Why are you living 
here ? What action did the passengers take ? and the 
company ? Did Skinner get away ? ” 

McGregor sighed pleasantly. 

“ Ronny Skinner is not the kind of man to go back on a 
pal. It may simplify things to you, gentlemen, if I tell you 
that my .name is not McGregor—it is Eyles ! Skinner did 
not have the slightest difficulty in getting away. No one 
recognized in the handsome young man who arrived at 
Cathay House any resemblance to the driver of the General. 
They had not even got his photograph, you see, to put in 
the Daily Mail . No one had noticed him very much. That 
is the advantage of being a nonentity. There was a half¬ 
hearted law case between the passengers and the company, 
but, as I have said, the majority were only too anxious to 
escape the ridicule which the case brought upon them. 
As for the ’bus itself, lawyers argued about it for nearly a 
year. It was so damaged that the company was not over¬ 
anxious to have it back. The local Commons Committee 
tried to make them. In the end it was found that Cathay 
House estate—that is to say, the girl—had certain rights 
over this particular dingle. The argument went on so 
long that the whole thing petered out. About a year 
later Skinner said to me : ‘ Eyles, old boy, here is a hundred 
pounds. You go and make that ’bus into a snug little 
retreat, and live there when you want a change.’ And 


THE KIDNAPPED “ GENERAL ” 


85 


Skinner allows me two hundred a year to live on, for 
helping him in the exploit. And here lam!" 

“ You seem a very educated man for a corporal and a 
'bus conductor/' I remarked. 

“ My experience was almost identical to that of Skinner,” 
said Eyles. “ When the war broke out I was just leaving 
Charterhouse. I joined up as a private. When it was 
over I was twenty-four, with no training, and my people 
had all been ruined. There are lots of others, too, in our 
position.” 

Parker stood up and shook himself. 

“ Well, Mr. Eyles,” he said, “ I’m sure we are much 
obliged to you. It’s a most amazing story, and it's 
delightful to know that it has a happy ending.” 

“ Yes,” answered Eyles. “ It has a happy ending. I 
hope I haven’t bored you. You’ll find the inn a quarter of 
a mile past the cross roads.” 

We thanked him profusely and departed. The kidnapped 
General I It was a most amazing story. As we tramped 
along the road we discussed and dissected the details of it. 

“ There’s one thing that strikes me as queer,” said Parker. 
“ He said he was leaving Charterhouse when the war broke 
out. Say he was eighteen. When the war was over he 
would be approximately twenty-three, so now he should be 
about twenty-seven. He looks much older.” 

“ Yes,” I answered, “ he does, but that may be partly 
due to the fact of his hair going grey. A lot of men went 
prematurely grey during the war. He looks very wiry and 
fit.” 

Do you believe it's possible that there wasn’t a lot of 
talk about it in the newspapers ? ” 

“ There may have been some. But you know what it is 
—one often reads some fantastic story of that sort, and one 
simply does not believe it. It's like freak dinners and 
explorers' yams. One thinks, ‘ Yes, yes,’ and then you 
turn to see who won the semi-finals at Wimbledon. It may 


86 


THE KIDNAPPED 44 GENERAL ” 


be true. And then there is a lot in what he says about 
ridicule. The majority of people would rather be robbed 
than made to look ridiculous.” 

A little farther on we came to the inn. It was a pleasant 
lime-washed building set back from the road, and called 
“ The Harvester/’ A few carters and field labourers were 
drinking beer in the public bar. We entered and called 
for bread and cheese and beer. The landlord, a fat, 
melancholy-looking man in corduroy trousers and a slate- 
grey flannel shirt, insisted on our having our repast in a 
little room called a “ coffee-room.” He seemed friendly 
but not inclined to be very discursive. This may have been 
due to the fact that his pulmonary organs were obviously 
in need of repair. He wheezed, and gasped, and panted 
as he toddled hither and thither in the prosecution of his 
good offices. It was late and we were hungry, and is there 
anything in such circumstances so completely satisfying 
as bread and cheese and good brown ale ? We munched 
in happy silence, both, I believe, still ruminating on the 
bearded man’s strange story. 

When we had finished, we called the landlord to settle 
our reckoning. 

Having done so, and come to complete agreement with 
him that it was a fine day, one of us—I think it was Parker, 
said: 

“ That’s a queer customer you have out there, living in 
the motor-’bus on the common.” 

The landlord blinked his eyes, wheezed through the 
contortions of his breathing apparatus : 

“Mr. Ormeroyd ? ” 

“ No,” one of us answered. “ Mr. Eyles, the man in the 
shanty built on the remains of an old General motor-’bus.” 

The landlord’s face twisted into a form that was probably 
the nearest thing it ever did in the way of a smile. When in 
control of his voice more more, he said : 


THE KIDNAPPED " GENERAL ” 


87 


“ Eyles ? Oh, so that’s what he calls himself to-day, is it ? " 

At this surprising remark we both looked at each other 
questioningly. Before we had had time to frame any query, 
however, the landlord added : 

“ What story did he tell you about the ’bus to-day ? ” 

As briefly as possible Parker recounted the story as told 
to us. When it was finished, we listened patiently to the 
landlord’s lungs. At the end of a few minutes the bellows 
appeared to give out. 

“ Oh, so that’s the story to-day, is it ? A good one, too. 
He always tells a different story.” 

“ What! ” I exclaimed. “You mean to say the whole 
thing is made up ? ” 

“ I wouldn’t go so far as that,” said the landlord. “ There 
is a story right enough, but it has never been told. I’ve 
heard tell that if the true story was ever told—r-” 

He stopped and blinked at a small canary in a diminutive 
cage in front of the window. 

We waited for the landlord’s version, but it seemed never 
to be coming. 

“ Did you say that his real name is Ormeroyd ? ” I asked 
at length. 

“ So I’ve heard tell,” answered our host. “ They say he 
is a very clever fellow. He’s a very nice fellow, anyway. 
I’ve nothing against him. They say he used to be a writer 
before the war. You know, story-book stuff, tales and 
so on—made quite a big name, I believe, and lots of money. 
Now all the stories he invents concern the old ’bus.” 

“ But—why ? What is the cause ? ” 

“ I believe there is a story that, if told, would leave the 
story you heard to-day not worth mentioning. D’you 
remember during the first weeks of the war they sent a 
whole lot of London motor-’buses out to help transport the 
troops ? Well, Mr. Ormeroyd was a skilful shuvver, and 
he volunteered, and got the billet to drive one of these ’buses. 

I don’t rightly know the details. He was only out there 


88 


THE KIDNAPPED “ GENERAL ” 


six weeks. There was some awful incident—I believe he 
was the only one of a company saved—he on his old battered 
’bus. There was a score of them ’buses, men and drivers, 
and all blown to pieces. It was somewhere in Belgium. 
He got away back to the lines. But—well, it’s kind of— 
what do you call it ?—you know, got on his nerves, never 
thinks of anything else. He can still invent his stories, 
but they always concern the old ’bus. When they discharged 
him, I believe he went to one of these dumps and bought 
an old battered ’bus. He says it was his. It may be, for 
all we know. People up on the common there gave him 
permission to buildjhis shanty. He lives there, thinkin’ 
and writin’. A clever fellow, they all say.” 

“ But—hasn’t he any friends ? Can’t they make it 
better for him ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, he’s got plenty of friends. The people at the 
house, for instance—you know Cathay House—they look 
after him. There’s a girl there. They say it is better for 
him to live as he does—a kind of rest-cure. He’s getting 
better. They say he’ll get all right in time. He’s got 
money and his health is otherwise middlin’ good. He’s a 
clever fellow. He’ll get it all back, they say. His stories 
get better, you know. I’ve noticed it. That one about the 
stockbrokers l Oh, dear \ He, he, he ! ” 

“ There is a girl, you say ? ” Parker almost whispered. 

“ A very nice girl, too, the daughter of Colonel Redding, 
who owns Cathay House. Why, yes. Oh, I do like that 
about the stockbrokers ! ” 

The landlord was still chuckling as we took our departure. 

When we were once more upon the road, I remarked : 

“ So this story, also, may have a happy ending, Jim.” 

“ I hope so,” answered Parker. “ I liked that fellow. 
I liked the rude things he said about golf.” 

And borrowing a match from me, he lighted his pipe ; 
and we continued our pilgrimage. 


THE FRIENDS 


White and Mapleson often tried to recall the occasion when 
their friendship began, but neither succeeded. Perhaps it 
had its origin in some moment when the memory was to 
some extent blurred. Certain it is that they drifted 
together across the miasma of commercial London, and 
founded a deep and lasting friendship that found its chief 
expression in the chinking of glasses in the saloon and 
luncheon bars of various hostelries off Oxford Street and 
Bloomsbury. 

White acted as an agent for a firm of wire-mattress 
manufacturers in Old Street in the City, and as his business 
was conducted principally among the furnishing and 
upholstering outfitters in the West End, and as Mapleson 
was the manager of the brass-bed department at Taunton’s, 
the large furnishing emporium in Bloomsbury, it is not 
surprising that they came in contact, and that they had 
many interests in common. There is, alas ! no doubt that 
the most absorbing interest of both was the consumption 
of liquid refreshment, and there is also, alas ! no doubt that 
the friendship was quickened by the curious coincidence of 
their mental vision when stimulated by alcoholic fumes. 
And it is here that one or two curious facts relating to the 
personalities of the two men should be noted. During the 
day it would be no uncommon thing for either man to con¬ 
sume anything between ten and fifteen whiskies and sodas, 
and sometimes even more ; yet of neither man could it be 
said that he was ever really drunk. On the other hand, of 
neither man could it be said that he was ever really sober. 
White was a man of medium height, rather pale and slight. 

G 89 


90 


THE FRIENDS 


He had a dark moustache, and was always neatly dressed 
in a dark blue suit, with well-fitting boots and gloves. He 
was extremely quiet and courteous in manner, and his 
manner varied but little. The effect of alcohol upon him 
was only to accentuate his courtesy and politeness. Toward 
the evening his lips would tremble a little, but he would 
become more and more ingratiating. His voice would 
descend to a refined gentle croon, his eyes would just glow 
with a sympathetic light, and he would listen with his head 
slightly on one side and an expression that conveyed the 
idea that the remarks of the speaker were a matter of great 
moment to him. Not that he did not speak himself ; on the 
contrary, he spoke well, but always with a deferential 
timbre, as though attuning himself to the mood and mental 
attitude of his companion. 

On the other hand, Mapleson always started the day 
badly. He was a large, florid man, with a puffy face and 
strangely colourless eyes. He wore a ponderous frock- 
coat that was just a little out of date, with a waistcoat that 
hung in folds, and the folds never seemed free from sand¬ 
wich crumbs and tobacco-ash. He had an unfortunate 
habit with his clothes of never being quite complete. That 
is to say, that if he had on a new top-hat, his boots were 
invariably shabby ; or if his boots were a recent acquisition, 
his top-hat would seem all brushed the wrong way. As I 
say, he always started the day badly. He would be very 
late and peevish, and would fuss about with pills and 
cloves. He would complain of not being quite “ thumbs 
up.” Eleven-fifteen would invariably find him round at 
the Monitor, leaning against the mahogany bar and asking 
Mrs. Wylde to mix him “ a whisky and peppermint,” or 
some other decoction that between them they considered 
would be just the thing for his special complaint that 
morning. “ In the way of business ” he would treat and 
be treated by several other pals in “ the sticks,” as this con¬ 
fraternity called the furnishing trade, It would be interest- 


THE FRIENDS 


91 


ing to know what proportion of Mapleson’s and White’s 
income was devoted to this good cause. When Mapleson 
would arrive home sometimes late at night, breathing 
heavily, and carrying with him the penetrating atmosphere 
of the tap-room, he would say in response to the complaints 
of his tired wife : 

“ I hate the stuff, my dear. You have to do it, though. 
It’s all in the way of business.” 

A sociologist might have discovered, if he were searching 
for concrete instances, that White aiid Mapleson spent on 
each other every year very nearly eighty pounds, although 
the business they did together amounted to rather less than 
thirty, a somewhat unsound premium. 

As the day wore on, Mapleson would improve. And it 
was one of the assets of the White-Mapleson friendship 
that they usually did not meet till luncheon-time. Then the 
two friends would chink glasses and stroll arm in arm into 
Polati’s, in Oxford Street, for, as Mapleson would say, 
“ When a man works hard he needs feeding,” and White 
would agree with him deferentially, and they would secure 
a seat not too near the band, and after thoroughly consider¬ 
ing the menu, they would order a “ mixed grill,” as being 
“ something English and that you can get your teeth into.” 
During the interval of waiting for the mixed grill, which 
took fifteen minutes to prepare, Mapleson would insist on 
standing White a gin-and-bitters, and of course it was only 
right and courteous of White to return the compliment. 
The mixed grill would be washed down with a tankard of 
ale or more often with whisky and soda, after which the 
friends would sometimes share a Welsh rabbit or a savoury, 
and it was Mapleson who introduced the plan of finishing 
the meal with a coffee and liqueur. “ It stimulates one’s 
mind for the afternoon’s business,” he would explain, and 
White flattered him on his good sense, and insisted on 
standing an extra liqueur, “ just to give value to one’s cigar.” 
Under the influence of these good things, Mapleson would 


92 


THE FRIENDS 


become garrulous, and White even more soothing and 
sympathetic. This luncheon interval invariably lasted two 
hours or two hours and a half. They would then part, each 
to his own business, while making an appointment to meet 
later in the afternoon at the Duke of Gadsburg. 

And here a notable fact must be recorded : for an hour or 
two in the afternoon each man did do some work. And it 
is a remarkable point that Taunton’s, the great house in 
Bloomsbury, always considered Mapleson a good salesman, 
as indeed he was. The vast lapses of time that he spent 
away from business were explained away on the score of 
active canvassing. His “ turnover ” for the year com¬ 
pared favourably with that of the other managers at 
Taunton’s. While of White strange rumours of the enorm¬ 
ous fortune that he was accumulating were always current. 
The natural reserve of the wire-mattress agent, and his 
remarkable lucidity on matters of finance, added to the 
fact that he took in and studied The Statist, gave him a 
unique position in the upholstering world. Men would 
whisper together over their glasses and say, “ Ah, old 
White! He knows a thing or two,” and grave specu¬ 
lations would go on as to whether his income ran into 
four figures, and in what speculations he invested his 
money. Considerable profundity was given to these 
rumours by the fact that White always had money and 
that he was always willing to lend it. He carried a sovereign 
purse that seemed inexhaustible. 

Mapleson, on the other hand, though natively lavish, 
had periods of “ financial depression.” At these periods 
he would drink more and become maudlin and mawkish, 
and it was invariably White who helped him out of his 
troubles. The two friends would meet later in the after¬ 
noon “ to take a cup of tea,” and it often happened that 
Mapleson felt that tea would not be just the thing for his 
nervous constitution ; so White would prescribe a whisky 
and soda, and they would adjourn to a place where such 


THE FRIENDS 


93 


things may be procured. It is remarkable how quickly the 
time passed under these conditions; but just before six 
Mapleson would “ run back to the shop to see if any orders 
had come in.” With studious consideration White would 
wait for him. It was generally half-past six or seven before 
Mapleson returned, thoroughly exhausted with his day’s 
work. 

It was then that the suavity and charm of White’s 
manner was most ingratiating. He would insist on Maple¬ 
son having a comfortable seat by the fire in the saloon, and 
himself carrying across the drinks from the bar. Mapleson 
soon became comforted, and would suggest “ a game of pills 
before going home.” Nothing appealed to White more 
than this, for he was a remarkable billiard-player. Young 
Charlie Maybird, who is a furniture draftsman and an 
expert on sport, used to say that “ White could give any 
pub marker in London forty in a hundred and beat him off 
the mark.” He had a curious feline way of following the 
balls round the table ; he seemed almost to purr over them, 
to nurse them and stroke them, and make them perform 
most astounding twists and turns. And every time he 
succeeded, he would give a sort of self-depreciatory croon, 
as much as to say : “ I’m so sorry ! I really don’t know 
how the balls happen to do all this.” And yet it is remark¬ 
able how often White lost, especially against Mapleson. 

Mapleson was one of those players who give one the 
impression of being an expert on an off-day. As a matter of 
fact, he never had an “ on ” day. He was just a third-rate 
player ; only he would attempt most difficult shots, and 
then give vent to expressions of the utmost surprise and 
disgust that they didn’t come off. 

The billiards would last till eight o’clock or half-past, 
when a feeling of physical exhaustion would prompt the 
arrangement that “ a chop would be a good idea.” They 
would then adjourn once more to the dining-room at the 
Monitor, and regale themselves with chops, cheese, and ale, 


94 


THE FRIENDS 


by which time Mapleson would arrive at the conclusion 
that it wasn’t worth while going home ; so an adjournment 
would be made once more to the bar, and the business of the 
evening would begin. 

It might be worth while to recall one or two features of 
the Monitor bar, which was invariably crowded by salesmen 
and assistants from Taunton’s, and was looked upon as a 
sort of headquarters of the upholstering trade at that time. 
It was a large room, fitted in the usual way with glittering 
mahogany and small glass mirrors. Two long seats 
upholstered in green leather were set about a cheerful 
fireplace of blue tiles. There were also four small circular 
tables with marble tops, and on each side of the fireplace 
two enormous bright-blue pots of hideous design contain¬ 
ing palms. On the side facing the bar was a florid staircase 
with a brass hand-rail leading up to the dining and billiard- 
rooms. 

The only difference that a stranger might have felt 
between this and any other place of similar description 
at that time lay perhaps in its mental atmosphere. There 
was always a curious feeling of freemasonry. In addition to 
Mrs. Wylde there were two other barmaids, Nancy and 
Olive, who was also sometimes called “ the Titmouse.” 
Both were tall, rather thin girls, with a wealth of wonderful 
flaxen hair. They seemed to spend a considerable amount 
of time, when not engaged in serving, in brewing themselves 
cocoa and hot milk. Olive was a teetotaller, and confessed 
frankly with regard to alcohol that she “ hated the muck,” 
but Nancy would occasionally drink stout. 

To be served by Mrs. Wylde was a treat that only occa¬ 
sionally occurred to the more favoured devotees of the 
Monitor. She was a woman of enormous proportions, with 
a white-powdered face and also a wealth of flaxen hair. 
She invariably wore a rather shabby black dress, trimmed 
with lace, and a huge bunch of flowers, usually lilies and 
carnations. 


THE FRIENDS 


95 


Now, everybody who came into the bar or the Monitor 
seemed not only to know Nancy and Olive and Mrs. Wylde 
by name, but everybody else by their name or nickname. 
For instance, this sort of thing would happen : a pale, thin 
young man, with pointed boots and a sort of semi-sporting 
suit, would creep furtively in and go up to the bar and lean 
across and shake hands with Nancy, and after a normal 
greeting would say : 

“ Has the Captain been in ? ” Nancy would reply : 

“Yes, he was in with the Rabbit about four o’clock.” 
Then the young man would say: 

“ Oh, didn’t he leave nothing for me? ” and Nancy would 
say : 

“ No. I wouldn’t be surprised if he came in later. ’Ere, 

I tell you what-” and she would draw the young man 

to a corner of the bar, and there would be a whispered 
conversation for a few moments, and then the young man 
would go out. All of which would seem very mysterious 
to a casual visitor. 

Of this atmosphere White and Mapleson were part and 
parcel. They had their own particular little round table 
near the fire, where, despite Mapleson’s daily avowal to get 
home, one could rely on finding them nearly every evening. 
And they gathered about them a small colony of kindred 
spirits. Here they would sit very often till nearly twelve 
o’clock, when the Monitor shut, drinking whisky and talk¬ 
ing. As the evening advanced, Mapleson expanded. One 
of his favourite themes was conscription. On this subject 
he and White were absolutely in accord. 

“ Every man ought to be made to serve his country,” 
Mapleson- would say, bringing his fist down with a bang on 
the marble table. “ He ought to be made to realize his 
civil responsibilities and what he owes to the empire. 
Every man under thirty-five should serve three years.”— 
Mapleson was forty-four—“ It seems to me we’re becoming 
a nation of knock-kneed, sentimental women.” 


96 


THE FRIENDS 


And White would dilate upon what the Germans were 
doing and would give precise facts and figures of the strength 
of the German army, and the cost and probabilities of land¬ 
ing ten army corps on the coast of Suffolk. 

Another favourite theme was the action of “ these silly 
women/’ and Mapleson would set the bar in roars of 
laughter with a description of what he would do if he were 
Home Secretary. 

Mapleson was very fond of talking about “ his principles.” 
In conversation it seemed that his actions must be hedged 
in by these iron-bound conventions. In effect they were 
virtually as follows : Business comes first always ; never 
fail to keep a business appointment; never mix port and 
whisky ; never give anything to a stranger that you might 
give to a pal. 

He had other rules of life, but they were concerned 
exclusively with questions of diet and drinking, and need 
not concern us here. 

Thoroughly exhausted with the day’s business, Mapleson 
would leave the imperturbable White just before twelve 
o’clock, and not infrequently would find it necessary to take 
a cab to Baker Street to catch his last train to Willesden 
Green, where he lived, and where he would arrive at night, 
having spent during the day a sum varying between twenty 
and thirty shillings, which was precisely the amount he 
allowed his wife every week to keep house for a family of 
five, and to include food, clothing, and washing. 

White lived at Acton, and no one ever quite knew how he 
arrived there or by what means. But he never failed to 
report at nine o’clock the next morning at Old Street, with 
all his notes, orders, and instructions neatly written out. 
It was remarkable how long the Monitor remained the 
headquarters of this fraternity, for, as one of them re¬ 
marked, “ the licensing business is very sensitive ” in the 
same way that a flock of crows will simultaneously and 
without any apparent reason fly from one hill to another; 


THE FRIENDS 


97 


it will be a sort of fashion for a group of men to patronise 
a certain establishment and then suddenly to segregate 
elsewhere. It is true that there were one or two attempts at 
defection—Charlie Maybird once made an effort to establish 
a headquarters as far away as the Trocadero even—but 
the birds soon returned to the comforting hostelry of Mrs. 
Wylde. 

And then one summer Mapleson was very ill. He got 
wet through walking to Baker Street one evening when, 
after having started, he found he had only three coppers on 
him. He travelled home in his wet clothes, and next day 
developed a bad chill, which turned into pneumonia. For 
days he lay in a critical state, but, thanks to the attention 
of Mrs. Mapleson, who did not go to bed for three nights, 
and a careful doctor, he got over the crisis. But the doctor 
forbade him to go back to business for a fortnight, and 
suggested that if it was possible to arrange it, a few days at 
the seaside might set him up. White called several times, 
and was most anxious and solicitous, and assured Mrs. 
Mapleson that he would do anything in his power to help his 
friend, and sent a large basket of expensive fruits and some 
bottles of very old port wine. 

Mapleson's illness, however, was of more troublesome a 
nature than appeared at first. After a rather serious re¬ 
lapse the doctor said that his heart was not quite what it 
should be, and it was nearly a month before the question of 
moving him could be considered. Taunton’s treated 
Mapleson very well over this, and his salary was paid every 
week ; only, of course, he lost his commission, which in the 
ordinary way represented the bulk of his income, and it 
became necessary for Mrs. Mapleson to economize with the 
utmost skill, especially as the invalid required plenty of 
good and well-cooked food on regaining his strength. The 
rest of the family had therefore to go on shorter commons 
than usual, and matters were not helped by the fact of one 
of the children developing glands and being in an enfeebled 


98 


THE FRIENDS 


condition. White called one evening, and was drinking a 
glass of the old port with the invalid, and they were dis¬ 
cussing how it could be arranged for Mapleson to get a week 
at Brighton. 

“ I think I could travel now,” said Mapleson; “ only 
I don't see how the missus is going to leave Flora.” 

It was then that White had an inspiration. If it would 
help matters in the Mapleson family he would be pleased 
to take a week off and go to Brighton with Mapleson. 
Mapleson hailed this idea with delight, and Mrs. Mapleson 
was informed, on entering the room a little later, “ You need 
not bother about it any more, my dear ; White has been 
good enough to offer to go to Brighton with me.” Mrs. 
Mapleson was a woman who said very little, and it was 
difficult on this occasion to know what she thought. In 
fact, her taciturnity at times irritated Mapleson beyond 
endurance. She merely paused, drew in her thin pale lips, 
and murmured, “ All right, dear,” and then busied herself 
with preparing Mapleson’s evening broth. 

The friends were very lucky with the weather. Fresh 
breezes off the Channel tempered the fierce August sun and 
made the conditions on the front delightful. It might be 
hinted that perhaps the weather might have been otherwise 
for all the interest that they took in it. 

For the first day or so, finding his vitality returning to 
him, Mapleson persuaded his companion that the choicest 
spot in Brighton was the saloon bar of the Old Ship. And 
he could not show his gratitude sufficiently. White was 
given carte blanche to order anything he liked. But White 
would not listen to such generosity. He knew that the 
expenses that Mapleson had had to endure must be telling 
on him, so he insisted on paying at least twice out of three 
times. Mapleson acknowledged that it was “ a hell of a 
worry and responsibility having a family to keep. They 
simply eat up the money, my dear chap.” 

The week passed quickly enough, and both were soon 


THE FRIENDS 


99 


back at their occupations in town. The friendship pur¬ 
sued the even tenor of its way, and it was fifteen months 
before any incident came to disturb it. 

Then one day in October something happened to White. 
He fell down in the street, and was taken to a hospital. It 
was rumoured that he was dead. Consternation prevailed 
in the upholstering confraternity, and Mapleson made 
anxious enquiries at the hospital bureau. It was difficult 
to gather precise details, but it was announced that White 
was very ill, and that a very serious operation would have 
to be performed. Mapleson returned to the bar of the 
Monitor harbouring a nameless dread. A strange feeling of 
physical sickness crept over him. He sat in the corner of 
the bar, sipping his whisky, enveloped in a lugubrious 
gloom. He heard the young sparks enter and laugh and 
joke about White. It was a subject of constant and cynical 
mirth. “ Hullo,” they would say, “ heard about old 
White ? He's done in at last." And then there would be 
whisperings and chucklings, and he would hear : “ Drunk 
himself to death. Doesn't stand a dog’s chance, my dear 
chap. My uncle had the same thing. Why, he’s been at it 
now for about twenty-five years. Can’t think how he’s 
lasted so long.’’ And then they would come grinning up 
to Mapleson, hoping for more precise details. “ Sorry to 
hear about your friend, Mr. Mapleson. How did it 
happen ? ’’ 

Mapleson could not stand it. He pushed back his half- 
filled glass, and stumbled out of the bar. He was not aware 
of an affection for White, or of any sentiment other than a 
vast fear and a strange absorbing depression. He crept 
into the saloon of a small house off the Charing Cross Road, 
where no one would be likely to know him, and sat silently 
sipping from his glass. It seemed to have no effect upon 
him. The vision of White lying there, like death, and per¬ 
haps even now the doctors busy with their steel knives- 

Mapleson shivered. He ordered more whisky and drank 


100 


THE FRIENDS 


it neat. He stumbled on into other bars all the way to 
Trafalgar Square, wrestling with his fear, and drinking. 
The spirits ultimately took their effect, and he sat some¬ 
where, in some dark corner, he could never remember where, 
with his mind in a state of trance. He remembered being 
turned out—it must have been twelve o’clock—and en¬ 
gaging a cab—he could just remember his address—and 
ordering the man to drive home. In the cab he went sound 
asleep, hopelessly drunk for the first time in many years. 
He knew nothing more till the next day. Some one must 
have come down to help carry him in ; he was no light 
weight. He woke up about one o’clock, feeling very ill and 
scared. He jumped up and called out: 

“ What the devil’s the time ? What are we all doing ? 
Why haven’t I been called ? ” 

Mrs. Mapleson came in ; she put her hand on his forehead 
and said: 

“ It’s all right. I sent a telegram to say you were ill. 
You had better stop here. I’ll get you some tea.” 

Mapleson fell back on the pillows, and the sickening 
recollection of last night came back to him. 

Later in the evening Mrs. Mapleson came in again and 
said: 

“ I hear that Mr. White has had his operation, and is 
going on as well as could be expected.” 

Beads of perspiration streamed down Mapleson’s face, 
and he murmured, “ My God ! my God ! ” That was all 
that was said, and the next day Mapleson went back to 
work. 

The officials at the hospital seemed curiously reticent 
about White. The only information to be gleaned for 
some days was that he was alive. Mapleson went about 
his work with nerveless indifference. He drank, but his 
drinking was more automatic than spontaneous. He 
drank from habit, but he gained neither pleasure nor profit 
from doing so. 


THE FRIENDS 


101 


The nameless fear pursued him. Great bags appeared 
under his eyes, which were partly blood-shot. He stooped 
in his walk, and began to make mistakes in his accounts, 
and to be abstracted in dealing with customers. 

He was arraigned before two of the directors of Taunton's, 
and one of them finished a harangue by suggesting that 
“ it might be more conformable to business methods if he 
would remove the traces of yesterday’s breakfast from the 
folds of his waistcoat.” The large man received these 
criticisms in a pathetic silence. “ Poor old Mapleson ! ” 
they said round in the bar of the Monitor. “ I’ve never seen 
a chap cut up so about anything as he is about White,” 
and then abstract discussions on friendship would follow, 
and remarkable instances of friendship formed in business. 

Of course White would die—that was a settled and 
arranged thing, and curiously enough little sympathy 
was expressed even by those to whom White "had lent 
money. Despite his charm of manner and his generosity, 
they all felt that there was something about White they 
didn’t understand. He was too clever, too secretive. 

On Friday he was slightly better, but on Saturday he had 
a relapse, and on Sunday morning, when Mapleson called 
at the hospital, he was informed that White was sinking, 
and they didn’t expect him to last forty-eight hours. 

Mapleson had inured himself to this thought; he had 
made up his mind to this conclusion from the first, and this 
last intimation hardly affected him. He went about like 
one stunned, without volition, without interest. He was 
only aware of a vast unhappiness and misery of which White 
was in some way a factor. 

For five days the wire-mattress agent lay on the verge of 
death, and then he began to rally slightly. The house 
surgeon said it was one of the most remarkable constitu¬ 
tions he had ever come up against. For three days there 
was a distinct improvement, followed by another relapse ; 
but still White fought on. At the end of another week he 


102 


THE FRIENDS 

was out of danger, but the convalescence was long and 

16 When at the end of six weeks he was well enough to leave 
the hospital, the house surgeon took him to one side and 

said: , . ^ , 

“ Now look here, my friend, we re going to let you out. 

And there’s no reason why you shouldn’t get fairly well 
again. Only I want you to understand this : if you touch 
alcohol again in any form—in any case, for years—well, 
vou might as well put a bullet through your own head. 

In another ten days White was back at business, looking 
exactly the same as ever, speaking in the same suave voice. 
He soon appeared in the Monitor, but with the utmost 
courtesy declined all offers of drinks except ginger-ale. It 
need hardly be said that to Mapleson such an event seemed 
a miracle. He had sunk into a low, morbid condition from 
which he had never hoped to rise. t 

Out of courtesy the first evening Mapleson insisted on 
drinking ginger-ale himself, so that his friend should not 

feel out of it. , . ; . , , 

And they sat and had a discussion far into the night, 
White giving luminous and precise details of the whole of 
his illness and operation, eulogizing hospital methods, and 
discussing the whole aspect of society towards therapeutics 
in a calmly detached way. 

But Mapleson was not happy. He was glad to have 
White back, but the element of fear that White had in¬ 
troduced him to was not eliminated. He felt ill himself, 
and there somehow seemed a great gap between White in 
the old days and White drinking ginger-ale and talking 
medicine. For three nights Mapleson kept this up, and 
then thought he would have “ just a night-cap.” 

It gradually developed into the position that Mapleson 
resumed his whisky and White stuck to his ginger-ale; and 
it is a curious fact that this arrangement depressed Mapleson 
more than it did White. He drank copiously and more 


THE FRIENDS 


103 


frequently in order to create an atmosphere of his own ; 
but always there was White looking just the same, talking 
just the same. 

The ginger-ale got on Mapleson’s nerves. He felt that he 
couldn’t stand it, and a strange and enervating depression 
began to creep over him again. For days this arrangement 
held good. White seeming utterly indifferent as to what 
he drank, and Mapleson getting more and more depressed 
because White didn’t drink whisky. At length Mapleson 
suggested one evening that “ surely just one ” wouldn’t 
hurt White. But White said with the deepest tone of regret 
that he was afraid it would be rather unwise ; and as a 
matter of fact, he had got so used to doing without it that 
he really hardly missed it. 

From that moment a settled gloom and depression took 
hold of Mapleson. He just stood there looking at White 
and listening to him, but hardly troubling to speak himself. 
He felt utterly wretched. He got into such a state that 
White began to show a sympathetic alarm, and one evening 
toward the end of February, as they were sitting at their 
favourite table in the Monitor, White said, “ Well, I’ll just 
have a whisky and soda with you if you like.” 

This was one of the happiest evenings of Mapleson’s life. 
As soon as his friend began to drink, some chord in his own 
nature responded ; his eyes glowed, he became garrulous 
and entertaining. 

They had another, and then went to a music-hall, into the 
lounge ; but there was such a crowd that they could not see 
the stage, so they went to the bar at the back and had 
another drink and a talk. How they talked that night! 
They talked about business and dogs and conscription and 
women and the empire and tobacco and the staff of Taun¬ 
ton’s. They had a wild orgy of talk and drink. That 
night White drank eleven whiskies and sodas, and Mapleson 
got cheerfully and gloriously drunk. 

It was perhaps as well that the friends enjoyed this 


104 


THE FRIENDS 


bacchanalia, for it was the last time they met. By four 
o’clock the next afternoon White was dead. 

Mapleson heard of it the following night. He was leaning 
against the fireplace in the Monitor, expatiating upon the 
wonderful improvement in White, and extolling his virtues, 
when young Howard Aldridge, the junior salesman to Mr. 
Vincent Pelt of Taunton’s, came in to say that White’s 
brother-in-law had just rung up Mr. Pelt to say that White 
was dead. When Mapleson heard this he muttered, “ My 
Christ! ” 

These were the last words that Mapleson ever uttered in 
the bar of the Monitor. 

He picked up his hat and went out into the street. It 
was the same feeling of numbed terror and physical sickness 
that assailed him. With no plan of action arranged, he 
surprised his wife by arriving home before ten o’clock and 
by going to bed. He was shivering. She took him up a 
hot-water bottle and said, “ I’m sorry to hear about White.” 
Mapleson didn’t answer, but his teeth chattered. He lay 
awake half the night thinking of death. 

The next day he got up and went to business as usual, but 
for the second time the head of the firm felt it his duty to 
point out to him one or two cases of negligence and to warn 
him that “ these things must not happen in the future.” 

Two days later Mapleson received a postcard signed by 
“ F. Peabody,” to say that the funeral of the late G. L. 
White would take place at such-and-such a church at East 
Acton, and would leave the “ Elms,” Castlereach Road, 
Acton, at twelve o’clock, and it was intimated that a seat 
for Mr. Mapleson would be found in a carriage. 

A fine driving rain out of a leaden sky greeted Mapleson 
when he set out for White’s funeral on the Saturday. His 
wife tried to persuade him not to go, for he was really ill; 
but he made no comment. He fiddled about with a time¬ 
table, and could come to no satisfactory decision about the 
way to get there. His wife ultimately looked him up a 


THE FRIENDS 


105 


train to Hammersmith, from which terminus he could get 
a train. Before reaching Hammersmith a strange revulsion 
came over him. Why, after all, should he go to this 
funeral ? White wouldn’t know about it, and what did he 
know of White’s relatives ? A strange choking and giddi¬ 
ness came over him, and at Hammersmith he found a 
comfortable refreshment-room, where he betook himself, 
and decided that after refreshing he would go on to business. 

After having two whiskies, however, he changed his mind. 
“ No,” he muttered to himself, “ I’ll see it through.” He 
boarded a tram that went in the direction of Acton. He 
found that he had to change trams at one point. It 
seemed an interminable journey. He kept wondering how 
White managed to get home at night from Oxford Street 
at twelve o’clock. He felt cold and wretched as the effect 
of the whisky wore off. 

At last he reached Acton, and asked for Castlereach Road. 
Nobody seemed to know it. He was directed first in one 
direction and then in another ; at last a postman put him 
on the right track, but suggested that as it was some way, 
he might get a ’bus to Gaddes Green, and then it was only 
about fifteen-minutes’ walk. 

Mapleson set off, keeping a sharp look-out for a place of 
refreshment, for the reactionary spirit was once more upon 
him. The ’bus put him down at a forlorn-looking corner, 
where there was only a sort of workman’s ale-house. “ I 
expect I’ll pass one on the way,” he thought, and taking his 
directions from the assistant of a greengrocer’s shop, he 
set out once more through the rain. 

The farther he went, the meaner and more sordid did the 
streets become. He did not pass a single public-house that 
he felt he could approach. “ I expect the neighbourhood 
will change soon,” he thought; “I expect I’ve come the 
wrong way. Why, everyone said White must be making 
at least eight hundred a year. He wouldn’t live in a place 
like this.” 

H 


106 


THE FRIENDS 


r At length he came to a break in the neighbourhood where 
some newly-built villas crowded one another on the heels of 
the more ancient squalor. An errand-boy told him that 
“ Castlereach Road was the second turning on the right off 
Goldsmith’s Havenue.” He found Goldsmith’s Avenue, 
where a barrel-organ was pouring forth lugubrious music 
to an audience listening from the shelter of their windows, 
and swarms of dirty children were hurrying through the rain 
on nameless errands. A piece of bread and jam was thrown 
from a second-story window to a little boy in the street, and 
missed Mapleson’s hat by inches. His progress was in any 
case the source of considerable mirth to the inhabitants. 

At last he came to Castlereach Road. After the noise 
and bustle of Goldsmith’s Avenue, it seemed like the end of 
the world. It was a long straight road of buff-coloured 
villas, with stucco facings and slate roofs, all identically 
the same. From the end, where Mapleson entered it, it 
looked interminable and utterly deserted. Doubtless, if it 
had been a fine day, the gutters would have been crowded 
with children ; but with the pouring rain, there was not a 
soul in sight. 

Mapleson blundered on in search of Number 227, and as 
he did so, a thought occurred to him that he and White had 
a common secret apart. He always had felt in his inmost 
heart a little ashamed of his red-brick villa in Willesden 
Green, and that was one reason why he had always kept 
business well apart from domestic affairs; and White had 
casually referred to his “ place at Acton. His place at 
Acton! Mapleson entered it, horribly tired, horribly sober, 
horribly wretched. All the blinds were down. It had 
taken so long to get there he hoped that he was too 
late. 

A tall, gaunt woman in black, with a slight down on her 
upper lip, opened the door. She seemed surprised to see 
him. 

He explained who he was. 


THE FRIENDS 107 

“Oh, yes. My! you are early. It’s only half-past 
twelve. 

“ Half-past twelve ? ” said Mapleson. “ But I thought 
the funeral was to be at twelve.” 

Then the gaunt woman called into a little side room : 

“ ’ Ere > Uncle Frank, what ’ave you been up to ? Did 
you tell Mr. Myple that the funeral was at twelve ? ” 

Oh, don t sye that ) don t sye that! ” came a voice 
from the room, and a small man, with sandy hair and 
wizened features and small, dark, greedy eyes, came out into 
the hall. " Oh, don’t sye that, Mr. Mypleson ! I’m Pea¬ 
body. I quite thought I said two o’clock.” 

Mapleson had a wild impulse to whistle for a cab or a 
fire-engine, and to drive away from this anywhere ; but 
the utter helplessness of his position held him fast. Before 
he had time to give the matter serious thought he was being 
shown into the drawing-room, a small stuffy room with a 
blue floral wall-paper, bamboo furniture, and many framed 
photographs, and the gaunt woman was saying, “ Oh, Uncle 
Frank, how could you have made that mistyke ! ” And 
Uncle Frank was explaining how it might have occurred 
and at the same time saying that they must make the'best 
of it; that Mr. Mapleson would have a bit of lunch. There 
was a nice cut of cold leg of mutton, and of course no one, 
under circumstances like this, would expect an elaborate 
meal; in fact, no one would feel like it, apart from anything 
else. And then the gaunt woman left the room, and 
Mapleson was alone with Uncle Frank. 

Mapleson could not recollect ever having met anyone 
whom he so cordially hated at sight. He had a sort of 
smug perpetual grin, a habit of running his hands down 
his thighs as far as his knees, and giving vent to a curious 
clicking noise with his cheeks. 

“ Well, this is a very sad hoccasion, Mr. Mypleson,” he 
said , very sad indeed. Poor George ! Did you know 
him well ? Eva—his wife, you know—she’s upstairs quite 


108 


THE FRIENDS 


prostrate. That was her sister who showed you in. Yes, 
yes, well, how true it is that in the midst of life we are in 
death! I'm afraid poor George was careless, you know. 
Very careless. Clever, mind you—clever as they make 
’em, but careless. Do you know, Mr. Mypleson, he hadn't 
even insured his life ! And he’s left no will. There isn’t 
enough to pay his funeral expenses. Fortunately, Eva’s 
clever ; oh, yes, she’s clever with her fingers. They say 
there’s no one in the neighbourhood to touch her in the 
millinery. Oh, yes, she’s been at it some time. Why, bless 
my soul, do you know she’s paid the rent of this ’ouse for the 
last four years ? Oh, she’s a clever woman. Poor soul, 
though, her great consolation is that George didn’t die in 
the ’orspital. Yes, Mr. Mypleson, he died upstairs, quiet 
as a lamb. She was there at the end. It was a great 
consolation.” 

And Uncle Frank nodded his head, and his little eyes 
sparkled, but the grin never left his lips. Mapleson said 
nothing, but the two men sat there in a sombre silence. 
Uncle Frank occasionally nodding his head and muttering, 
“It’s a sad hoccasion.” 

The rain increased, and it seemed unnaturally dark in the 
blue drawing-room, and Mapleson felt that he had sat there 
an eternity, consumed by desire to get away, when there 
was another knock at the door, and a youth was let in. 

Uncle Frank called him Chris, and he seemed to be a 
cousin, or some near relative of White’s. He was a raw 
youth who had just gone to business, and was very much 
aware of his collar and cuffs. He seemed to take to Maple¬ 
son, and he sat watching him furtively. Mapleson seemed 
a man of the world, a very desirable personality. The 
youth made many advances, but the latter felt a repugnance 
for him in only a slightly less degree than in the case of 
Uncle Frank. 

At length the gaunt sister asked them all into the dining¬ 
room, which was a room on the other side of the passage 


THE FRIENDS 


109 


that seemed even smaller and stuffier than the drawing¬ 
room. It was papered with a dark-red paper, and the 
woodwork was painted chocolate. As they crossed the hall, 
they passed Mrs. White, who had apparently been per¬ 
suaded by her sister ‘ ‘ to try and take something. ’ ’ She was 
a shrivelled little person, with white cheeks, and her eyes 
were red with weeping. 

She hurried by the men without speaking, and a curious 
thought struck Mapleson. During the twenty years or so 
that he had known White he could not recollect him speak¬ 
ing of his wife. He probably had done so, but he could not 
recollect it. He remembered him talking about his “ place 
at Acton/' but never of his wife. He did not feel entirely 
surprised. White was probably ashamed. 

In the window of the dining-room were several bird¬ 
cages, containing two canaries, a bullfinch, and a small 
highly-coloured bird that hopped from the floor of its cage 
to a perch and kept up a toneless squeak, with monotonous 
regularity. Uncle Frank went up to the cage and tapped 
the wires, and called out, “ Ah, there he is ! Cheep / cheep! 
This is our little Orstrylian bird, Mr. Mapleson. Isn't he ? 
Yes, yes ; he’s our clever little Orstrylian bird.” And 
during the course of the hurried meal of cold mutton and 
cheese the birds formed a constant diversion. Uncle Frank 
would continually jump up and call out, “ Oh, yes, he’s our 
little Orstrylian bird.” 

Mapleson tried to recall whether he had ever discussed 
birds with White, and he felt convinced that he had not. 
It seemed a strange thing. White apparently had had these 
birds for some time—three different varieties in his own 
house ! Mapleson would have enjoyed talking about birds 
with White ; he could almost hear White’s voice, and his 
precise and suave manner of discussing their ways and 
peculiarities. And the terrible thought came to him that 
he would never hear White talk about birds, never, never. 
This breach of confidence on White’s part of never telling 


110 


THE FRIENDS 


him that he kept birds upset Mapleson even more than his 
breach of confidence in not talking about his wife. 

“ Oh, yes, he’s a clever little Orstrylian bird.” A terrible 
desire came to Mapleson to throw Uncle Frank through 
the window the next time he heard this remark. 

Before they had finished the meal, three other male 
relatives appeared, and a terrible craving came over 
Mapleson for a drink. Then the sister came down with a 
decanter of sherry and said that perhaps the gentlemen 
would like a glass. Uncle Frank poured out a glass all 
round. It was thin, sickly stuff, and to the brass-bed 
manager like a thimbleful of dew in a parched desert. A 
horrible feeling of repugnance came over him—of repug¬ 
nance against all these people, against the discomfort he 
found himself in. 

After all, who was White ? When all was said 
and done. White was really nothing to him, only a man 
he’d met in the course of business and had a lot of drinks 
and talks with. At that moment he felt he disliked White 
and all his snivelling relatives. 

He wanted to go, to get away from it all; but he couldn’t 
see how. There was half a glass of sherry left in the 
decanter. He unblushingly took it as the funeral cortege 
arrived. There were two ramshackle carriages and a 
hearse, and a crowd of dirty children had collected. He 
tried to mumble to Uncle Frank some excuse for not going, 
but his words were lost by an intensely painful scene that 
took place in the hall as the coffin was brought down. He 
did not notice that the sister with the down on her upper lip 
became an inspired creature for a few moments, and her 
face became almost beautiful. 

He felt that he was an alien element among all these 
people, that they were nothing to him, and that he was 
nothing to them, and he felt an intense, insatiable desire 
for a drink. If he couldn’t get a drink, he felt he would go 
mad. 


THE FRIENDS 


111 


Someone touched him on the arm and said, “ Will you 
come with us in the second carriage, Mr. Mapleson ? ” He 
felt himself walking out of the house and through a row of 
dirty children. For a moment he contemplated bolting up 
the street and out of sight, but the feeling that the children 
would probably follow him and jeer paralysed this action ; 
and then he was in the carriage, with Chris and another 
male relative who was patently moved by the solemnity of 
the occasion. 

Chris wriggled about and tried to engage him in banal 
conversation, with an air that suggested, “ Of course, Mr. 
Mapleson, this is a sad affair, but we men of the world know 
how to behave." 

The dismal cortege proceeded at an ambling trot, occa¬ 
sionally stopping. Chris gave up for the moment trying to 
be entertaining, and the forlorn relative talked about 
funeral services and the comfort of sympathy in time of 
bereavement. They crawled past rows of congested villas 
and miles of indescribable domesticity of every kind, till as 
they were turning round a rather broader avenue than usual 
where there were shops, the forlorn relative said, “We shall 
be in the cemetery in five minutes/' 

And then Mapleson had an inspiration. They were 
ambling along this dreary thoroughfare when his eye 
suddenly caught sight of a large and resplendent public- 
house. It was picked out in two shades of green, and 
displayed a gilt sign-board denoting “ The Men of 
Kent." 

Almost without thinking, and certainly in less time than 
it takes to chronicle, Mapleson muttered something to his 
two companions, and called out of the window to the driver 
to stop. He then jumped out, and called out to the driver 
of the hearse and the other carriage to stop, and then before 
anyone realized what it was all about, he darted into the 
saloon bar of The Men of Kent! 

The bar was fortunately empty, but through the little 


112 


THE FRIENDS 


glass shutters two women and a man in the private bar 
watched the performance. 

There was a moment of dazed surprise, followed by a 
high shriek of laughter and a woman’s voice in strident 
crescendo: 

“ He’s stopped the funeral to come in an’ ’ave a drink ! 
O my Gawd ! ” Mapleson’s tongue seemed to cling to the 
roof of his mouth, but he gasped out an order for a whisky 
and soda. To the barman these incidents were nothing, and 
he served the drink instantly; but to the three in the 
private bar it was a matter of intense enjoyment. The 
other woman took it up. 

“ Well, that’s the first time I’ve known that ’appen. 
Gawd ! fancy stoppin’ a funeral to come and ’ave a drink ! ” 
Then the man bawled out: “ ’Ere, I sye, ain’t the others 
cornin’ in ? Let’s make a dye of it.” 

The women continued shrieking with laughter, and the 
appalling ignominy of his position came home to him. He 
knew that he was damned in the eyes of White’s friends. 

Curiously enough, the thought of White had passed out 
of his mind altogether. He was a thing in revolt against 
society, without feelings and without principles. 

Yet when the whisky was put in front of him his hand 
trembled, and he could not drink it. He fumbled with the 
glass, threw down a sixpence, and darted out of the bar 
again. 

In the meanwhile Uncle Frank and other members of the 
funeral party had got out of the carriages and were having 
a whispered consultation on the curb. Instructions had 
evidently been given for the cortege to proceed, for Uncle 
Frank was talking to the driver of the hearse when Maple- 
son appeared. 

As all returned to the carriages, the three people came 
out of the bar and raised a cheer, and one of the women 
called out, “ Oh, I sye, don’t go ! ” 

Mapleson lay all of a heap in the corner of the carriage, 


THE FRIENDS 


113 

and he noticed that he was alone with Chris. The forlorn 
relative had gone into the other carriage. 

In a few minutes they arrived at a church, a large new 
building with Early Victorian Gothic arches and a profusion 
of coloured glass. The funeral party huddled together in 
the gloom of the large church, and somehow the paucity of 
their numbers seemed even more depressing than the 
wretchedness of their appearance. 

Mapleson sat a little way back, and curiously enough his 
mind kept reverting during the service to the little birds. 
He felt a distinct grievance against White on account of 
the little birds. Why hadn't he told him, especially about 
the small Australian bird? It would have made a 
distinctly interesting subject of conversation. 

The service seemed interminably long, and it was a relief 
when the tall, rather good-looking young clergyman led 
the way out into the cemetery. The rain was still driving 
in penetrating gusts, and as they stood by the grave-side, 
the relatives looked askance at one another, uncertain 
whether it was the proper thing to do to hold up an 
umbrella. As to Mapleson, he was indifferent. For one 
thing, he had not brought an umbrella; but it seemed 
frightfully cold. 

They lowered the coffin into the grave and earth was 
sprinkled. For a second it flashed through his mind, 

“ That’s White being let down,” and then a feeling of 
indifference and repugnance followed, and the craving 
desire to get away from all these sordid happenings. Then 
he suddenly thought of White’s wife. “ A miserable- 
looking slattern she was,” he thought. “ Why, what was 
she snivelling about? What could she have been to 
White or White to her? Why, he never mentioned her 
during twenty years ! ” 

He experienced a slight feeling of relief when the service 
was finished and the party broke up, and he hastily made 
for the cemetery gates, knowing that White’s friends would 


114 


THE FRIENDS 


be as anxious to avoid him as he was to avoid them ; but he 
had not reached them before some one, hurrying up behind, 
caught him. It was Chris. 

“ I expect you’re going up west, Mr. Mapleson,” he said. 
“ If it’s not putting myself in the way, I’ll come too.” 

Mapleson gave an inarticulate grunt that conveyed 
nothing at all; but the young man was not to be put off. 

There was something about the bulk of Mapleson and the 
pendulous lines of his clothes and person that made Chris 
feel, when he was walking with him, that he was “ knocking 
about town ” and “ mixing with the world.” He himself 
was apprenticed to a firm of wall-paper manufacturers 
and he felt that Mapleson would be able to enlighten him 
on the prospects and the outlook of the furnishing and 
decorating trade. He talked gaily of antique furniture 
till they came to a gaunt yellow-brick station. 

On enquiry, there seemed to be no trains that went from 
it to any recognizable or habitable spot, but outside were 
two melancholy hackney-carriages. By this time Mapleson 
was desperate, and a strange feeling of giddiness possessed 
him. 

He got in, and told the driver vaguely “ to drive up to 
London.” Chris came to the rescue, and explained to him 
that he might drive to Shepherd’s Bush first. They started 
off, and rattled once more through the wilderness of dreary 
villas. 

The young man accepted the position he found himself in 
with perfect composure. He attributed Mapleson’s silence 
to an expansive boredom, and he talked with discretion and 
with a sort of callow tact. Before they reached Shepherd’s 
Bush, however, Mapleson muttered something about feeling 
faint, and Chris immediately suggested that they should go 
and have a drink. “ You might bring me something in,” 
said Mapleson. “ I’ll have a brandy neat.” They drove 
helplessly through neat avenues and roads for nearly ten 
minutes without passing anything in the way of a public- 


THE FRIENDS 


115 


house. At last they came to a grocer’s shop licensed to sell 
spirits not to be consumed on the premises. “ Go and buy 
me a bottle of brandy/’ said Mapleson. The young man got 
out, and soon returned with a six-and-sixpenny bottle of 
brandy and a corkscrew. He paid for it himself, relying on 
the natural honour of Mapleson to settle up afterwards \ 
but the matter was never mentioned again. 

He drew the cork, and Mapleson took a long drink, and 
then wiped the mouth of the bottle and offered it to Chris. 
Chris behaved like a man, and also took a draught, but 
spluttered rather. 

For the rest of the journey Mapleson at regular intervals 
took thoughtful and meditative drinks, and gradually began 
to revive. He went so far as to ask Chris if he knew any¬ 
thing about the little birds, and how long White had had 
them. Chris said he knew he had had the canaries for four 
or five years and the bullfinch for two years. He didn’t 
know much about the little Australian bird. This 
information seemed to cause Mapleson to revert to his 
former gloom. 

When they reached Shepherd’s Bush the cabman refused 
to go farther. So they got out, and entered another cab, 
Mapleson carrying the brandy-bottle under his arm. He 
took it upon himself to tell the cabman—this time a taxi— 
to " drive round the Outer Circle of Hyde Park, and to 
take the hood down.” 

It was about half-past four when they reached Hyde 
Park, and the rain had ceased a little. It was the fashion¬ 
able hour for the afternoon drive. Magnificent motors and 
two-horse phaetons were ambling round well within the 
regulation limit. Their cab was soon almost hemmed in by 
the equipages of the great world. But after they had com¬ 
pleted the circle once, and Mapleson lay back, with his feet 
on the opposite seat and his hat brushed the wrong way, and 
without the slightest compunction held the large brandy- 
bottle to his lips every few yards, Chris began to feel that 


116 THE FRIENDS 

there was a limit to his desire to “ mix with the 
world.” 

He got the cab to stop near the Marble Arch, and 
explained to Mapleson that he must get out and take the 
tube to business. 

And then there was a scene. Mapleson, who up to that 
time had not addressed a personal word to Chris, suddenly 
became maudlin. He cried, and said that he had never 
taken to anyone as he had to Chris. He was the dearest 
fellow in the world ; he mustn’t leave him ; now that White 
was dead, he was the only friend he had. 

But people began to collect on the side-walk, and Chris 
simply ran off. The taxi-driver began to be suspicious 
about his fare, which was registered fourteen shillings. But 
Mapleson gave him a sovereign on account, and told him to 
drive to Cleopatra’s Needle, on the Embankment. 

By the time they reached there, the brandy-bottle was 
three-quarters empty, and tears were streaming down his 
cheeks. He offered the driver a drink, but the driver was 
“ not one of that sort,” and gruffly suggested that Mapleson 
“ had better drive ’ome.” So he got out of the cab patheti¬ 
cally, settled with the driver, and sat on a seat of the 
Embankment, hugging his bottle and staring at the river. 

Now, it is very difficult to know exactly what Mapleson 
did the rest of that afternoon between the time when he 
dismissed the cabman and half-past eight, when he turned 
up in the bar of the Monitor. 

It is only known that he struggled in there at that time, 
looking as white as a sheet. He was wet through, and his 
clothes were covered with mud. He struggled across to the 
comer where he and White used to sit, and sat down. The 
bar was fairly crowded at the time, and young Chris made 
his d6but there. He felt that he would be a person of 
interest. When Mapleson appeared, he went up to him, 
but Mapleson didn’t know him, and said nothings 


THE FRIENDS 


117 


Several others came up and advised Mapleson to go home 
and change his clothes and have a drink first; but he just 
stared stupidly ahead and made no comment. Someone 
brought some whisky and put it before him, but he ignored 
it. They then came to the conclusion that he was ill, so 
they sent for a cab, and two of them volunteered to see him 
home. 

Just as they were about to lead him out he stood up. 
He then stretched out his arms and waved them away. 
He picked up the glass of whisky and raised it slowly to 
his lips; but before it reached them, he dropped it, and 
fell backward across the table. 


“ Women, you know,” said Charlie Maybird some months 
later, addressing two friends in the Monitor, “ are silly 
creatures. They think love and friendship is all a question 
of kissin' and cuddlin'. They think business is all buyin’ 
and sellin’; they don’t think men can make friendships in 
business. Crikey ! I reckon there’s more friendships made 
in business—real friendships, I mean—than ever there is 
outside. Look at the case of White and Mapleson. I 
tell you, those two men loved each other. For over twenty 
years they were inseparable ; there was nothing they would 
not have done for each other; hand and glove they was 
over everything. I’ve never seen a chap crumple up so as 
Mapleson did when White died, in fact from the very day 
when White was took ill. He went about like a wraith. 
I’ll never forget that night when he came in here after the 
funeral. He sat over there—look—by the fireplace. He 
looked as though his ’eart was broken. Suddenly he stood 
up and lifted his glass, and then dropped it, and then fell 
backwards crash on to the floor. They took him to the 
’orspital, but he never regained consciousness. The doctors 
said it was fatty degeneration of the ’eart, ’elped on by some 
kidney trouble ; but I know better. He died of a broken 


118 THE FRIENDS 

’eart. Lord, yes ;11 tell you, there's a lot of romance in the 
furnishing trade." 

“ Did he leave any money ? ” asked one of the friends. 

“ My word, yes ; more than White," answered the genial 
Charles. “ White never left a bean, and it seems his missus 
had not only been paying the rent out of her millinery, 
but allowed White some. White was a card, he was." 

“ And what did Mapleson leave ? " 

“ Mapleson left nearly four pounds." 

“ Is that all ? " 

“ Four pounds and a wife and five kids, the eldest 
twelve." 

“ A wife and five kids ! How the hell does she manage 
to keep things going ? " 

“ Oh, Gawd knows ! Come, let’s go over to the Oxford 
and see what’s on." 


the persistent mother 

The refinement of the Bindloss family was a by-word in 
Tibbelsford. Mr. Bindloss himself was a retired printer. 
Now as everyone knows printing is the most respectable 
of professions, but retirement is the most refined profession 
of all. It suggests vested interests, getting up late in the 
morning, having a nap in the afternoon, and voting for 
keeping things stable. But Mr. Bindloss was by no means 
an inactive man. He was a sidesman at St. Mark’s Church, 
tended his own garden, grew tomatoes, supervised the edu¬ 
cation of his two daughters, sat on the committee of the 
Tibbelsford Temperance League, and the Domestic Pets 
Defence League. Mrs. Bindloss was even more refined, 
for it was rumoured that he was distantly related to a 
lord. She certainly spoke in that thin precise manner 
which was easily associable with the aristocracy ; a manner 
which her daughters imitated to perfection. The elder 
daughter Gwendoline who was sixteen, was in her last 
term at Miss Langton Matravers’ school; whilst the 
younger daughter Mildred was in her first term at that 
same institution. One might mention in passing that 
Miss Langton Matravers prided herself that she only 
catered for daughters of the gentry. The family lived in a 
neat semi-detached villa in the Quorn Road. 

Now it came to pass in the fullness of time that Mr. 
Bindloss realized that he was not so well off as he thought 
he was, or as he used to be. He discovered that the money 
that he had made by honest toil in the printing trade was 
now described as unearned increment, and taxed accordingly. 
Moreover, it did not go so far as it didin the good old days 
119 


120 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 


of his early retirement. In those days Mrs. Bindloss was 
able to secure a nice pliable servant, who would work 
twelve hours a day, sleep in, and only ask for every other 
Sunday afternoon off, for fourteen pounds a year. Now 
the only domestic help she could secure was a fugitive 
procession of strange women, who came daily and demanded 
a pound a week, all their evenings off as well as Sundays. 
Even then they did not appear eager for the work. They 
would turn up, take stock of the household, eat a few huge 
meals, smash a few plates, and vanish. It was very trying. 
Why couldn’t things remain as they were ? 

One spring morning Mr. Bindloss was in the garden 
thinning out some young cabbage plants, when his wife 
came out to him, holding a letter in her hand. 

“ I’ve had a letter from Agnes,” she said. 

“ Oh ! ” said Mr. Bindloss. 

“ She says that the Northallertons have gone to live at 
Tollinghurst.” 

“ Really l ” said Mr. Bindloss. 

“ Yes. Do you know that young Archie Northallerton 
may one day be Lord Windlass ? ” 

“ Oh, that’s nice ! ” said Mr. Bindloss, who was apt to be 
a little preoccupied when gardening. 

“ Put that trowel down, Julian, and listen to me,” said 
his wife. 

Mr. Bindloss knew when he was spoken to, and he obeyed. 

“ Young Archie is just fourteen. Tollinghurst is only 
half an hour’s journey by train. Does anything strike you ? ” 

“ Not forcibly,” replied Mr. Bindloss, scratching his 
head behind the left ear. 

“ No, I suppose it wouldn’t,” snapped the refined Mrs, 
Bindloss. “ Does it not occur to you that this boy is 
fourteen, that is to say that he is two years older than 
Mildred and two years younger than Gwen ? ” 

The eyes of Mr. Bindloss narrowed. His wife’s implica¬ 
tion became clear to him. 


121 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 

“ What a thing it is to have a clever wife/' he said 
defensively, then added: 

“ a bit young though to think of—er—marriage." 

“ It>s n °t too young to begin to think about it." 

“ No, no, that's true, that's very true. What do you 
propose to do, my dear ? " 

“ Write to his mother, and suggest their bringing or 
sending the boy over for the day." 

“ Excellent, you know her, of course ? " 

“ I haven't actually met her, but she will know of me 
naturally. We are distantly related." 

“ You say that boy may be Lord Cutlass. Let’s see, 
what is the exact relationship ? You did tell me but I 
have forgotten." 

‘ ‘ Windlass not Cutlass. It’s like this—my sister married 
a Bream, who are cousins to the Northallertons. Henry 
Bolsover Northallerton, the father of this boy, is the younger 
brother of Lord Windlass, who is a middle-aged bachelor. 
If he leaves no heirs Archie will inherit the estates and 
the title." 

“ I see, your's is not exactly a blood relationship, then. 

I mean to say there would be no obstacles-" 

“No obstacles at all. The Northallertons in any case 
are a very good family and very wealthy." 

“ Well, of course, my dear, I shan’t stand in your way. 
Indeed, I'll do my best to make the young gentleman’s 
visit enjoyable." So Mr. Bindloss returned to his cabbages 
and Mrs. Bindloss to the library, where she wrote the fol¬ 
lowing letter: 

Dear Mrs. Northallerton, 

Forgive my writing you as I don’t think we have ever 
actually met. My dear sister’s husband, Samuel Bream, 
used to speak so affectionately about you all. Happening 
to hear that you have come to live in the neighbourhood 
I wonder whether you would give us the great pleasure 
I 



122 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 

of a visit. My dear husband, who has retired from business 
and my two daughters and myself, would be delighted 
to welcome you. We live in a modest way, but we have 
a very pleasant garden, as this is my husband s special 
hobby. I hear you have a small boy. We should be so 
pleased if you would bring him too, as we are all devoted 
to boys. 

Believe me, dear Mrs. Northallerton, 

Yours cordially, 

Cora Bindloss. 

This letter elicited no reply for five days. At length 
one morning came the following : 

Dear Mrs. Bindloss, 

Thank you for your letter. Yes, I remember hearing 
my cousin speak of you. I'm afraid I cannot come oyer 
to see you just now, as I have several house-parties coming 
on, and Archie is attending school. Perhaps some time 
when you are in the neighbourhood you will give me a call. 

Yours sincerely, 

Constance Northallerton. 

To some people this reply would have been accepted as 
rather in the nature of a snub, but not so to Mrs. Bindloss. 
“ Jt gives me a loophole," she explained to her husband. 
“ x shall wait a decent period, and then happen to be in 
the neighbourhood." 

As a matter of fact she waited fourteen days. It is 
possible that she might have called on Mrs. Northallerton 
sooner, but this interlude had been devoted to the making 
of an ill-afforded new frock. At the end of that period 
she took the train to Tollinghurst, and walked sedately 
up to “ The Three Gables," only alas ! to find Mrs. North¬ 
allerton had gone up to town for a few days. Whatever 
faults Mrs. Bindloss may have had a lack of tenacity of 


123 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 

purpose was not one. Three times during the course of a 
fortnight she “ happened to be in the nieghbourhood ’’ 
of Toilinghurst. On the third occasion she ran her quarry 
to earth. Mrs. Northallerton was just going out but she 
was graciously pleased to entertain Mrs. Bindloss for a 
quarter of an hour. The latter, was at her very best. 
She flattered her hostess about her house, her clothes, her 
appearance, and her intelligence in accents so refined as 
to be almost painful. No one is entirely immune to flattery 
and Mrs. Northallerton could not help but be polite and a 
little cordial. Towards the end of the interview Mrs. 
Bindloss said: 

“ And how's that dear boy of yours? Archie, isn't his 
name ? " 

“ Oh, he's very well. He’s at school. He goes to Head- 
ingley, you know." 

“ Really, how interesting! " exclaimed Mrs. Bindloss. 
“ I hear it's such an excellent school. It is the great grief 
of my husband and myself that we never had a boy. My 
husband adores boys. It would be so delightful if you 
would let er-Archie come over and see us one day—perhaps 
during the holidays." 

“ Why, of course, I expect he would like to come very 
much," replied Mrs. Northallerton, without any great 
show of enthusiasm. “He’s just got his school cap— 
maroon and black stripes. He's very pleased with 
himself." 

“ How delightful! I do think maroon and black is a 
delightful combination. I expect he's a very clever boy, 
isn’t he ? " 

“They seem to think so, Mrs. Bindloss. He’s very 
good at Latin and botany." 

“ Really, how splendid, Mrs. Northallerton. He would 
get on admirably with my husband. He doesn’t know 
much Latin. He can’t speak it you know; but he knows 
all about botany. You should see the tomatoes he grows," 


124 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 

“ Indeed! Well, it’s very good of you to call, but I’m 
afraid I really must be going now.” 

“ Of course, oh dear! I’m afraid I’m an awful chatterbox, 
especially when I meet someone really interesting. 

When Mrs. Bindloss returned home that evening she 
was able to announce that she had made a conquest, that 
Mrs. Northallerton was charming, and that the boy was 
certainly coming over to visit the family during the holidays. 
She also said that her husband and both the girls were to 
study hard at Latin and botany. Now this command led 
to a good deal of unpleasantness. The little Latin that 
Mr. Bindloss had learnt at school he had almost entirely 
forgotten. It seemed rather much to expect, at his time 
of life, that at the end of a day’s gardening when his natural 
inclinations were to sit down and read the newspaper, he 
should have to try and learn up passages from Virgil. The 
girls said they hated botany and had no books on it. This 
defect was rapidly put right by Mrs. Bindloss, who went 
into the town and bought “ Green’s Life of the Plant ” 
and “ Morgan’s Botany for Beginners.” 

“ You will study these books, Gwendoline and Mildred, 
or there will be no flower show and Church bazaar for you 
next month ” 

Under this dire menace the two girls steeled themselves 
to grasp the first principles of plant life. And during the 
ensuing summer months Mrs. Bindloss did her best to 
train their minds in some of the principles of human life. 
She did it quietly and insinuatingly. She pointed out 
how in a few years time they would come to the stage 
when they would require to marry. She limned all the 
beauties and advantages of married life. She dwelt upon 
her own happy married life, only handicapped by the 
eternal lack of funds. Everything was so expensive now. 
Unless one was very, very rich one had to do one’s own 
housework. (The two girls she knew hated housework.) 
Then she began gradually to talk about young Archie 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 


125 


Northallerton. She had heard that he was a perfectly 
charming boy, very kind, clever, and gentlemanly. He 
would one day probably be Lord Windlass; in any case 
he would be very rich. -A woman who married him would 
be a real lady, and would never have to do any housework 
at all. She did not think it advisable to go any further. 
The affair did not make much impression on Mildred. 
She was of the age which is more interested in meringues 
than marriage. But Gwendoline was sixteen, and was 
beginning to be absorbed in erotic literature. In reading 
of the doings of Ivanhoe and Lancelot it occurred to her 
sometimes that Tibbelsford was a drab little town. And 
she dreamed of a knight on a white charger, riding up to 
number 27 , Quorn Road, and snatching her up—one evening 
perhaps when she was watering the syringa in the front 
garden—and carrying her off and whispering in her ear : 

“ Come, my beloved, I will make you a Lady. Come 
with me to my castle on the other side of the dark wood/' 

She dwelt rather unduly on these visions. 

As the summer advanced the family began to discuss 
the best way to entertain the future lord. It was to be 
assumed that it would be a fine day. Now Mr. Bindloss 
took a great pride in his lawn, which he kept rolled and 
cut himself. He had never allowed tennis or any other 
game to be played on it, but discussing the matter in bed 
one night with his wife, they agreed that a game of some 
sort would have obvious advantages. It would bring 
the young people into more intimate relationship. But 
tennis ? none of the family played tennis, and it was 
doubtful if the lawn was quite large enough. But what 
about croquet ? Croquet was a nice quiet game that didn’t 
require running about, and would not be likely to do damage 
to the flower beds. Yes, croquet they decided was just 
the thing. 

The next day Mr. Bindloss wrote up to town and had a 
croquet set sent down. When it arrived he and his wife 


126 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 


poured over the rules. They seemed extremely compli¬ 
cated, and the girls were called in to give their help. The 
only solution seemed to be set up the hoops and experiment. 

“ We must be able to play a decent game when Archie 
comes/' said Gwendoline, who quickly showed herself the 
most proficient performer of the family. Nearly every 
afternoon for some weeks the Bindloss family practised 
croquet, much to the astonishment of their neighbours. 
Mr. Bindloss had to explain to Mr. Longman next door 
that the exercise was good for the girls. This was a good 
enough reason, but whatever physical benefits may have 
accrued it cannot be said that the mental effect was satis¬ 
factory. There is perhaps no game at which people can so 
easily and persistently lose their tempers as croquet. 
There were furious arguments and-disputes about the rules. 
Moreover, Mr. Bindloss objected to being beaten, and the 
girls accused him of cheating. Mr. Bindloss always played 
with the wrong ball, and swore it was the right one. Eventu¬ 
ally the parents gave it up, and left the girls to play alone. 
Mildred hated the game, and was forced to play as though 
it were taking medicine. They also bought a box of 
draughts, and a box of Halma, in case it should be a wet 
day, when Archie came. Early in July Mrs. Bindloss 
again wrote to Mrs. Northallerton, a chatty friendly little 
letter, ending up by hoping that at the end of the term 
Mrs. Northallerton would remember her promise to bring 
Archie over for the day. 

She received no reply to this, so she wrote again a week 
later, saying that she feared her letter must have miscarried 
and repeating her invitation. There was still no answer, 
and it was near the end of July. The situation was desperate. 
She knew the school must have broken up. Some 
women would have given up in despair, but not so Mrs. 
Bindloss. She wrote once more, and said that as the 
weather was so fine and Mr. Bindloss's roses were now at 
their best, wouldn't Mrs. Northallerton and Archie come 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 


127 


over the following Wednesday to lunch and spend 
the afternoon? Her persistence reaped its reward. Two 
days later came a telegram from somewhere in York¬ 
shire. “ Many thanks am arranging to send Archie next 
Wednesday. Train arrives 12.45. Northallerton.” 

Triumph ! Mrs. Bindloss glowed with it. And then 
what a to-do there was. The girls' new taffeta frocks had 
been in preparation for some time and were quickly finished 
off. Mr. Bindloss was bought a new alpaca coat and a 
Panama hat. A new loose cover was made for the best 
armchair in the drawing-room. And a man was sent for 
to mend all kinds of household defects, attention to which 
was considerably overdue. 

“ And now we must consider the lunch and the tea,” 
said Mrs. Bindloss. 

It was decided that you could not give a potential lord 
anything less than chicken. The question was ought they 
to have soup and fish as well. After a deal of argument 
they decided to have soup only, for the reason that they 
were short of plates, and if Annie, the daily help, had to 
wash up plates between courses, she would probably lose 
her head. Of course there must be some nice sweets and 
pastry, but these could be prepared beforehand. And for 
the tea there must be a goodly assortment of cakes, jam 
and cream. 

“ A young gentleman like that is sure to appreciate 
such things,” said Mrs. Bindloss, “ and if we do it well 
he will be more likely to come again.” 

At length the great day dawned. Mrs. Bindloss was up 
early. She peered out of her bedroom window anxiously. 
Yes, the day promised to be fine. She got up and dressed 
and roused the rest of the family. There would be plenty 
to do for everyone. Annie couldn't be relied on to cook 
such an elaborate meal by herself. Mrs. Bindloss had had 
to scold her the day before for carelessness. Mrs. Bindloss 
dressed feverishly. Annie of course was late. She would 


128 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 


be on such an important occasion. Came half past seven 
and then eight and still no Annie. The girls were bustled 
out of bed and made to get breakfast. The family started 
the day with bad tempers. 

“ It’s no good getting agitated/’ said Mr. Bindloss, 
coming into the dining-room just as the breakfast was 
on the table. 

“ It’s all very well for some people/’ snapped Mrs. Bind¬ 
loss. “ Some people don’t have all the work and worry of it.” 

After a sketchy breakfast Mildred was sent into the 
town on her bicycle to beat up the lagging Annie. She 
returned in half an hour’s time with a message from Miss 
Annie Woppins to the effect that that lady had no longer 
any intention of “ obliging Mrs. B. after the saucy way she 
spoke to her yesterday.” 

Consternation and fury in the Bindloss family. 

“ We must make the best of it,” said Mr. Bindloss, 
lighting his pipe. “We must meet the situation with 
Christian fortitude.” 

“ Yes, and perhaps you’ll go and get some coals in,” 
said Mrs. Bindloss. “ Mildred, get on your bicycle again 
and go and see if you can get Mrs. Betts, or that other 
woman in Stone’s passage—what’s her name ? the one 
with a moustache.” 

“We can’t have that awful apparition about for 
Archie to see,” exclaimed Gwen. 

“You’d better get on with the housework,” said Mrs. 
Bindloss, “ and be quick about it. And, Mildred, on the 
way back, call at Fleming’s and order the dog-cart to be 
here sharp at twelve to take some of us to the station. 
Julian, after you’ve got the coals in, you can clean the 
knives, and then roll the lawn and put up the croquet 
hoops.” 

Mrs. Bindloss’s annoyance about the defection of Annie 
was mellowed by a certain cynical enjoyment at rubbing it 
in about the sordidness of domestic drudgery. It would 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 


129 


be an object lesson to the girls. Having borne the burden 
of the fight so far, she meant to stand no nonsense from the 
family. For the next few hours the house was in a turmoil. 
Mildred returned to say that neither Mrs. Betts, nor the 
woman with a moustache were available. Mrs. Bindloss 
proceeded with her preparations for lunch, whilst her 
husband and daughters were sent flying round at her 
commands. It was decided that the correct thing to do 
was for Mr. and Mrs. Bindloss to go to the station them¬ 
selves in the dog-cart to meet the future Lord Windlass, 
whilst the girls remained behind to change into the new 
taffeta frocks and at the same time to keep an eye on the 
fowl and the vegetables. It must be acknowledged that 
under the very trying circumstances Mrs. Bindloss managed 
efficiently. All the preparations were carefully made, and 
when the dog-cart arrived at twelve o’clock, she was ready 
in the hall pulling on her new white gloves. 

They arrived at the station a good quarter of an hour 
before the train came in. Mrs. Bindloss was one of those 
women who are always pecking at their husbands. That 
is to say she was always darting at him and pulling his 
waistcoat down, putting his tie straight, or picking little 
bits of cotton off his coat. This quarter of an hour was 
fully occupied in this way, amplified by various wishing-to- 
goodnesses he would do this, that, and the other in regard 
to his clothes. 

At length the train came in. It was a slack hour, and a 
mere handful of people got out. In this company it was 
not difficult to discriminate which was the future Lord 
Windlass. The rest were ordinary market folk. Apart 
from being obviously what is known as “ upper class, he 
was wearing the maroon and black striped cap which his 
mother had spoken to Mrs. Bindloss about. He came 
swinging along the platform, and he was carrying 
curiously enough—two fishing-rods in canvas coverings and 
a brown paper parcel. 


130 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 


“ Leave this to me,” whispered Mrs. Bindloss. When 
the boy was within hailing distance she cried out in her 
most refined accent : 

“ So here you are, Archie ! Welcome to Tibbelsford ! " 

She held out her hand, and he took it shyly. On close 
examination it could not be said that the future Lord 
Windlass was exactly of prepossessing appearance* For a 
boy of fourteen he was distinctly too fat. His round, fat 
face was flabby and, indeed, the lower part of his face even 
gave the appearance of having double chins. His expres¬ 
sion was taciturn, with a shy reserve of maliciousness. 

“ You're just in time for lunch," added Mrs. Bindloss, 
who was avid to begin the lavish entertaining. “ I expect 
you’re ready for your lunch after your journey." 

Archie mumbled something about being “ able to peck 
a bit," and the three walked out of the station and got into 
the dog-cart. 

When they were seated, Mrs. Bindloss broke out: 

“ Now, my dear Archie, I have a most dreadful confes¬ 
sion to make. I don't know what you'll think, considering 
what you—er—are used to. But the whole of our domestic 
service has broken down. I don't know whatever kind of 
lunch we shall be able to provide. I do hope you won't 
mind taking pot-luck. Our cook is ill in bed, and we're in 
such a muddle." 

They couldn’t hear what the boy replied, owing to the 
rattle of the wheels and the noise of the town. Mrs. Bindloss 
continued: 

“ And how is your dear mother ? " 

“ She’s all right." 

“ Such a charming woman, so handsome, so intellectual! " 

The rest of the conversation on the way to the house, 
consisted of a wild babble of effusive comment from Mrs. 
Bindloss, a certain amount of forced hilarity from Mr. 
Bindloss, checked by almost inaudible monosyllables from 
the boy. 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 


131 


“ He’s very shy,” Mrs. Bindloss whispered to her 
husband as they descended from the dog-cart. Gwendoline 
was on the lawn. 

Mrs. Bindloss called out: 

“ Ah, here we are, dear! This is my eldest girl, 
Gwendoline. I hope you’ll be great friends. Where is 
Mildred ? Reading, I expect. Both my girls are great 
readers. Are you fond of reading, Archie ? ” 

He was understood to say either “ yes ” or “no.” 

It was then Mr. Bindloss’s turn to have something to say. 

“ Hullo, I see you’ve brought fishing-rods. I’m afraid 
we haven't any fishing here.” 

“ Haven’t you? ” said Archie quite distinctly. 

They entered the hall, and he put down his rods, and his 
brown paper parcel, and took a stone bottle of ginger beer 
out of his pocket and laid beside it. 

“ Oh, dear ! boys will be pueri,” said Mr. Bindloss, 
who was preparing for his Latin campaign. “ He’s brought 
a bottle of ginger-beer, and I do believe—this parcel ” 

“ Really, Julian, Archie’s parcel is no business of yours.” 

“ They’re sandwiches,” said the visitor. This rather 
surprising statement was robbed of further comment by 
Mildred’s entrance, rubbing her hands on her apron, which 
she had forgotten to remove. She had been dishing up the 
vegetables. 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Bindloss, “ here’s our younger 
pride, Mildred. Mildred, dear, what are you wearing that 
apron for. Have you been working at your plants in the 
conservatory ? ” 

“No, mother, I—er-” she held out her hand to Archie 

and said timidly : “ How are you ? ” 

“ Pretty dicky,” replied the boy. 

“ What! ” exclaimed Mr. Bindloss. “ Pretty dicky ! 
but my dear boy, why didn’t you tell me ? What can we 
do ? Is there anything you’d like ? A little sal volatile, 
perhaps. How do you feel ? ” 


132 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 


“ Oh, I don’t know,” he answered. 

“ But this is most distressing. Do you feel like having 
any lunch ? ” 

“ I expect I could peck a bit.” 

There is no denying that the future Lord Windlass had 
not made a very auspicious start. He was plain, surly; 
he arrived with fishing-rods, sandwiches and ginger beer 
—whatever kind of people did his mother think they were ? 
—and on the top of this he announced that he felt “ dicky.” 

“ Come on, then, Julian, take Archie upstairs. Perhaps 
he would like a wash. He may feel better after lunch.” 

While he was upstairs the lunch was whipped on to the 
table. It must be acknowledged that for an invalid Archie 
“ pecked ” remarkably well. He had two wings of chicken, 
a large slice of breast, the parson’s nose, two sausages, a 
liberal helping of sprouts and potatoes, some coffee jelly, 
three mince pies, a banana, an apple and some nuts, and 
chocolates. Apart from eating his enthusiasms appeared 
dormant. They could get him to talk about nothing at all. 
Mrs. Bindloss talked about the Royal family, the weather, 
politics, her two daughter’s cleverness—she didn’t mention 
that it was Mildred who had smitched the Brussels sprouts 
—the church, and the lower classes. Mr. Bindloss talked 
about Headingley College, the decay of society, and the 
beauties of plant life. Gwendoline recounted a beautiful 
romance she had just been reading called. The Mother 
Superior. Mildred stared at the future lord open-mouthed, 
too nervous and agitated to eat or speak. The young 
gentleman himself remained stubbornly monosyllabic. 
He only ventured two remarks during the meal. Once he 
cocked his head on one side and said : 

“ That picture’s out of the straight.” 

And towards the end of the meal he said to Mildred : 

“ Do you hunt ? ” 

On receiving an answer in the negative, he relapsed into 
a settled gloom. 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 


133 


Once Mrs. Bindloss said : “ After lunch we thought you 
dear children might have a nice game of croquet. Dojyou 
play croquet, Archie ? ” 

“ No,” he said, “ I hate croquet.” 

This was distinctly discouraging in view of the time 
and expense that had been devoted in preparing this 
innocuous game. However, concessions have to be made 
to the eccentricities of a future lord. By an elaborate 
process Mr. Bindloss led up to the value of doing things 
promptly, and came out proudly with : 

“ As you know, Archie, corripe tempus quod adest, O 
juvenes, ne hori moriemini.” 

Anyone who happened to know the trouble that Mr. 
Bindloss had had to memorize this old tag would sympathize 
with him in his disappointment when he regarded the face 
of his guest. It expressed an uncomfortable disgust. 
Neither did he display any excitement over the girl’s 
drawings of flowers and fauna. 

After lunch, however, he appeared in a better humour. 
On his own responsibility he suggested a game with the 
girls which he called “ Yoics.” It had to be played in a 
room, so they repaired to the drawing-room. The game 
was this. Each of the three players had to occupy a wall, 
touching it with their hands. Then the one facing the 
blank wall had to call out: “ Yoics ! I’m going over.” 
Then he or she had to throw themselves on the ground and 
scramble on all fours to the opposite wall before the other 
two—also on all fours—met in the middle and touched 
hands. If he or she failed to get there, then they all 
changed walls and someone else tried. 

It was not a game that Mrs. Bindloss would have recom¬ 
mended because for one thing it meant re-arranging the 
furniture, furthermore, it did no good to the girls’ new 
taffeta frocks. Nevertheless, she and her husband looked 
on and gave the impression of being greatly amused. They 
kept the game up for about twenty minutes, until in an 


134 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 

excess of anxiety to reach the opposite wall, Archie barged 
into the mahogany side table and knocked it over, smashing 
the vase which dear Aunt Emily had given as a wedding 
present, and spilling the flowers and water all over Gwendo¬ 
line’s frock. Gwendoline had to go and change, and Mr. 
Bindloss suggested that as it was suchfa fine day they 
might play some game in the garden. 

Archie was now getting more at home with the girls, 
and his greater intimacy was principally demonstrated by 
pushing them about. He had quite a pleasant wrestle 
with Mildred while Gwen was changing her frock. He 
guaranteed to throw her three times in five minutes, pinion¬ 
ing her head to the ground, and he did so quite success¬ 
fully. He was less successful with Gwen, as he only 
threw her twice in ten minutes, and then at the expense of 
tearing her skirt. 

“ it’s a pity you don’t play croquet, Archie,” said Mrs. 
Bindloss. “ It’s a most interesting game.” 

“ No, I hate it. I’ll tell you what we will do though. 
Let’s play croquet polo. You know, you have a goal 
at each end of the lawn, and you try and score 
goals.” 

This sounded a harmless enough game, and they played 
Archie and Mildred versus Mr. Bindloss and Gwen. They 
started gently tapping the wooden ball across, but no goals 
being forthcoming, Archie began to hit harder, and suddenly 
there was a yell. Mr. Bindloss had received a fierce blow 
on the ankle from Archie’s drive. He limped off the field, 
and the girls protested that the game was too rough and 
dangerous. 

“ All right,” said Archie, “ but I bet I’ll drive a croquet 
ball further than you two girls put together.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Bindloss retired to the security of|the draw¬ 
ing-room. 

“ He’s^a very curious boy,” said Mr. Bindloss, rubbing 
his ankle, 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 


135 


“ I'm sure he's really very nice. I expect he improves 
on acquaintance,” replied his wife. 

There was a sudden terrific crash and they rushed to 
the window. Archie had driven his ball right through the 
glass of the tomato-house. 

“ Oh dear, oh dear ! ” Mr. Bindloss called out feebly. 

It required great tact to dissuade the young gentleman 
from continuing this game, without being definitely rude 
to him. It was not till he had trampled on a bed of lupins, 
broken a croquet mallet, and nearly knocked Mildred’s 
eye out, that they were able to get him to turn his attention 
to something else. 

The nerves of Mr. Bindloss were getting on edge. He 
was accustomed to an afternoon nap, but of course, such 
a thing was out of the question on a day like this. He 
was inclined to be querulous with his wife, an attitude 
which was hotly resented. 

“ You never think of the girls’ interests,” she said. 

“ Interests ! ” exclaimed Mr. Bindloss. “ A nice sort of 
son-in-law he’d make. I wish he’d go.” 

“ He’s getting on very well,” said Mrs. Bindloss, looking 
out of the window. “ I’m sure he’s enjoying himself.” 
Then she added breathlessly, “ Julian, would you believe 
it! He’s—kissing Gwen in the tomato house 1 ” 

" Kissing! ” 

“ Yes, he’s got his arm round her waist.” 

“ Well, I—really—I—what ought we to do ? ” 

“ Leave them alone. They are only children. Be¬ 
sides-” 

She turned from the window and took up some knitting. 
There was silence from the garden for nearly twenty 
minutes. Then Mildred came running in. 

“ I say, mother, Archie says he feels sick,” she exclaimed 
excitedly. 

“ Sick ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Bindloss. 

“ Sick ! ” echoed Mr. Bindloss, 


136 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 


“ Yes, he looks it too.” 

“ oh dear, oh dear! ” exclaimed both the parents. 
They hurried out into the garden. There was Archie 
sitting on the grass fanning himself. He certainly looked 
very queer. 

“ Oh, my dear Archie,” exclaimed Mrs. Bindloss, “Im 
so sorry. Won’t you come in ? Let me get you something. 
Hadn’t you better lie down ? ” 

He said, “ Yes,” and they led him in. He looked so ill 
that they took him up to Mr. Bindloss’s bedroom and got 
him to lie down on the bed. 

“ Gwen,” said Mrs. Bindloss, “ run down the road and 
see if Dr.’ Burns is in. I'm sure Archie’s mother would 
like us to have a doctor to him.” 

They gave him a little soda water and left him. Gwen 
went for the doctor. And while she was gone a most 
surprising thing happened. A telegram arrived addressed 
to “ Bindloss.” Mrs. Bindloss naturally opened it, and 
having opened it, gave a gasp of astonishment. She handed 
the telegram to her husband. It ran as follows. 

“ Archie has mumps regret could not send him. North¬ 
allerton.” 

Mr. Bindloss repeated the word “ mumps ” three times, 
and stared helplessly at his wife. 

“ What does it mean ? ” said Mrs. Bindloss savagely, 
as though accusing her husband of some wicked treachery. 

“ How can they say they couldn’t send him when he’s 
upstairs all the time lying on my bed ? ” said Mr. Bindloss, 
as though he had made a brilliant riposte. 

“ He must have escaped,” interjected Mildred. 

Mr. Bindloss was feverishly biting his nails. Suddenly 
he waggled his first finger at his wife. 

“Does anything strike you? [Does anything strike 
you ? ” he said. 

“ What ? ” 

“ He’s got mumps. That’s what the matter is with him. 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 


137 


When he arrived I thought he had double chins. But he’s 
got mumps.” 

Mrs. Bindloss gasped. 

“ He’s got mumps, and he’s been kissing the girls, and 
now he’s lying on my bed.” 

“ It’s an outrage,” screamed Mrs. Bindloss, “ What are 
we to do ? ” 

“ The only thing we can do is to wait for the doctor and 
then telegraph to Mrs. Northallerton.” 

Gwendoline happened to catch the doctor starting on 
his rounds. He came in and he and the two parents went 
up to the bedroom. The doctor examined the boy. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ he’s got mumps all right. He must 
remain here and not be moved.” 

“ Oh, my dear Archie,” said Mrs. Bindloss, “ what a pity 
you didn’t tell us ! But look here, my dear, here’s a most 
curious letter from your mother, read it.” 

Archie was sorry for himself and surly. He read the 
telegram and said: 

“ That’s not from my mother.” 

“ How do you mean ? ” 

“ My mother’s name is Bloggs.” 

“ What! ” yelled Mr. Bindloss. 

“ What! ” screamed Mrs. Bindloss. 

“You never asked me my name. I was going out to do 
a bit of fishing and you asked me home to lunch. That’s 
all.” 

“ But we called you Archie.” 

“ My name is Archie, Archie Bloggs.” 

“ But the maroon and black cap ! ” 

“Yes, I know, I go to Headingley. I know young 
Northallerton, awful little ass. There was an epidemic of 
mumps just as the school broke up.” 

“ But who the devil! ” exclaimed Mr. Bindloss. “ I 
mean who is your father ? ” 

“ Don’t you know ? Blogg’s Sausages.” 

K 


138 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 


Mrs. Bindloss was nearly in tears. 

“ Do you mean to say we’ve taken all this trouble and 
your father is only a sausage-” 

Mr. Bindloss saw red. 

“ It’s an outrage ! ” he yelled. “ I shall prosecute you. 
You come here and get a good meal on false pretences. You 
smash up the drawing-room. You smash the greenhouse 
and the croquet mallet. You nearly break my leg. And 
on the top of it you go kissing the girls with mumps on 
you, and all the time you’re not—you’re not who you’re 
supposed to be. You’re only the son of a sausage—By 
God ! I’ll have you locked up.” 

The doctor intervened. 

“ You must excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Bindloss, as I’m 
here in a professional capacity I must ask you to keep the 
patient quiet. And he should not be moved from this 
room.” 

“ We won’t have him here.” 

“Well, that’s not my business. I’ve given you my 
advice.” And the doctor went. 

There are many people in Tibbelsford who consider that 
Mr. and Mrs. Bindloss behaved heartlessly in this matter. 
It is a point of controversy to this day. The visit from an 
indignant Mr. Samuel Bloggs, the father, did not help 
perhaps to pour oil on the troubled waters. There was 
certainly an acrimonious argument, and various cross 
threats of legal proceedings, but in the end the boy was 
sent home in an ambulance. The critics of the parents’ 
behaviour did not of course know the inner history of their 
spiritual duress. People are apt to underestimate what 
parents will suffer for their children’s interests, what 
indignities they will submit to. The girls fortunately did 
not get mumps, and two days later Mrs. Bindloss wrote 
to Mrs. Northallerton. 


THE PERSISTENT MOTHER 


139 


Dear Mrs. Northallerton, 

We were so grieved to hear about dear Archie. I do 
hope he is making a good recovery. We waited lunch 
nearly three quarters of an hour for him. I hope before 
the holidays are over he will be well enough to come over 
for the day, and that you will be able to accompany 
him. It was so sweet of you to have tried to arrange it, 
and to have sent us the telegram. My husband joins me in 
sending our very best "greetings, and hopes for Archie’s 
speedy recovery. 

Believe me, dear Mrs. Northallerton, 

Yours very sincerely, 

Cora Bindloss. 

That is the kind of woman Mrs. Bindloss is. And that 
is the kind of spirit that has built cities, founded colonies 
and enlarged empires. 






# 








* 






















* 











r 













WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 


You may remember that the summer of 1938 was an 
exceptionally hot one. Anti-cyclones over the eastern 
Atlantic caused a series of heat waves in northern and 
western Europe. These conditions began in early June, 
and they prevailed with only the briefest interruptions 
right up to the third week in September. People had never 
known such a hot summer. 

One afternoon during the beginning of the first heat 
wave in June, Lena Trevanna peeped beneath the sunblind 
and looked down on to the marble terrace of her husbands 
palatial mansion at Twickenham. The white marble 
seemed to be dancing and quivering in the sun. Project¬ 
ing from beneath the awning of an extending deck chair 
she could see her husband’s white buckskin boots, and the 
sight filled her with bitterness. One might ask whether 
her husband’s boots were a special source of irritation to 
Lena. It is difficult to say. Certainly, the right boot had 
once kicked her during a paroxysm of the owner’s anger. 
But it is doubtful whether she hated his feet more than 
any of the rest of him. She had no desire to see his face at 
that moment. She was all too familiar with that heavy, 
puffy jowl, the bald head fringed with white hair, the moist 
protruding eyes, the bristly tooth-brush moustache, the 
overhanging eyelids, and the small dark eyes that missed 
nothing and flashed alternately with anger and cunning. 

She hated him, and she hated that miniature city, the 
roofs of which she could just see on the other side of the 
park. They called it Trevanna City. It comprised 
several square miles of studios, workshops, and buildings 
141 


142 WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 


of plaster and canvas, film factories, and solid houses 
where lived actors and producers, and operators, and all 
the rag-tag and bob-tail of that profession she had learned 
to hate. 

And Lena had not always hated it. When a very 
young girl it had been the ambition of her life to be a film¬ 
star. She had studied and struggled and failed. She 
knew she was not beautiful. She was short and dark and 
ill-proportioned. But she had something—she believed 
she had the ability to portray emotion. For three years 
she had withstood the buffets of the cinema world. No 
one gave her the least encouragement. She became 
despondent and bitter. And then one day she had met 
the great Julius Trevanna. Even at that time—fifteen 
years ago—he was a big man in the film world. And now ? 
—was it not a notorious fact that he was the central pivot 
of a virtual combine, the combine of all British and Colonial 
film interests ? Millions : millions ; he had piled them up 
as other men pile up shillings. And the millions brought 
no satisfaction to Lena. She was nominally the mistress 
of the house. In effect she was less than a servant. She 
was a servant without the power to give notice. She was 
a slave, a chattle. She wandered through the great 
corridors and galleries, and was alone—utterly alone. 

Some strange, almost perverse desire must have assailed 
Julius when they first met. She was conscious of him ob¬ 
serving her sleepily and tugging at his little moustache as 
though considering a problem. She disliked him instantly. 
He was physically repellent to her. And then one day he 
had come and stroked her hair and said: 

“ You’re a nice little girl, eh ? ” 

She did not know what to do. There suddenly flashed 
through her mind two visions. One of Lena Baynes— 
unsuccessful, unknown, penniless, getting old. The other 
of Lena Trevanna, rich, successful, the greatest film star 
in the world. If she married him he would be bound to 


WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 143 


give her leading parts. She had hesitated and dallied. 
Julius was a masterful man. He had not given her oppor¬ 
tunities for long consideration. Money was no object in 
any of his undertakings. And so one April day she found 
herself his wife. For a few months there was a semblance 
of some kind of happiness in their married life, and then 
came the rift. She almost at once discovered that he was 
vicious, egotistical, and tyrannical. He tired of her, but 
he would not let her go. When she suggested herself in 
leading parts, he said : 

“ ’Um, yes. Well, we shall see. Better begin at the 
bottom and climb.’' 

He gave her small parts and quickly showed he thought 
nothing of her ability. One day she overheard him tell a 
producer that he needn’t bother about her because “she 
was a perfect fool.” That was the beginning. They 
quarrelled, and henceforth their lives were lived apart. 
They shared the great palace and hardly ever exchanged 
a word. He clothed her and fed her, but only made her a 
small allowance. He ordered her about and bullied her. 
Sometimes he even struck her. For fifteen years she had 
endured this life, hesitating between numerous alternatives. 
What could she do ? If she left him, she would again have 
to face the struggle and the disgrace. She had become 
quite convinced at last that she really had no ability as an 
actress. And she was getting older. No wonder she 
began to hate this unreal world. Everything was unreal 
and unconvincing. Emotions, murders, and marriages 
and robberies were always being enacted right under her 
nose. The house itself was frequently in use, and she 
arrived at the condition of being unable to differentiate 
between reality and posture. Every vision might be a 
chimaera. The wljole countryside was unreal—film mad. 

On this afternoon as she gazed on to the terrace, she 
sighed for the days of her youth, when everything was vital 
and real. The sun was apparently too hot for Julius. She 


144 WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 


saw him pull his hat over his eyes and stroll into the house. 
At the same time she observed a large aeroplane gliding 
downwards beyond the trees. After hovering for a few 
seconds, it alighted on the landing stage across the park. 
A small detachable motor-car appeared to be released from 
the framework and in a few minutes was racing up the drive 
towards the house. 

“ It's someone coming to see Julius,” she thought. 

In her enervated and bored mood she felt a sudden 
desire to see who this stranger might be. Anything was 
better than eating her heart out. She found her husband 
in the Louis XV. salon, still smoking the cigar and glancing 
at a tape machine. She did not address him. She went 
and perched herself in the window-seat. Apparently he 
did not observe her. She pretended to be reading. In a 
few minutes' time a butler entered with a card on a lacquer 
tray. He handed it to Julius* who examined it. 

“ Good God ! " 

The importance of the message appeared to be so pro¬ 
found that he swung round as though he could not restrain 
his excitement. He must communicate it to someone. He 
observed Lena and exclaimed : 

“ Mark Ulrich! Good God! Mark Ulrich himself! 
The biggest man in the film world of the whole of America ! 
What the devil does he-” 

Apparently feeling that he was being too f amiliar and 
communicative, he turned once more to the butler and 
said : 

“ Show Mr. Ulrich in." 

The room was flooded with a mellow light diffused by 
the skilful arrangement of sunblinds. She lay shivering 
in her corner, watchfully alert. The butler retired and 
re-entered, followed by the visitor. There was little about 
the first impression of Mr. Mark Ulrich to denote the big¬ 
gest man in the cinema world. His physique was insigni¬ 
ficant, his face was grey and drawn, his clothes dowdy. 


WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 145 


It was only when he advanced and held out his hands that 
she observed the quiet power behind the eyes, the steady 
jaw, the complete sense of assurance which only masterful 
men possess. 

“ Mr. Trevanna ? ” he muttered, and smiled kindly. 

Julius was obviously deeply affected, excited and a 
shade suspicious. What had the American Film King 
come to him for ? He spoke as casually as he could : 

“I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Ulrich—a great 
honour. Won’t you sit down ? ” 

The American perched himself on the corner of a Chester¬ 
field, and passed his hand over his brow. 

“ I have been most anxious to meet you, Mr. Trevanna. 
I am a bad traveller. I preferred the old days when we 
used to come by sea. Even now I insist upon the dirigible. 
They are slow but comfortable. I must have my bath. 
It is two and a half days since I left my home in Connecticut 
to come and visit you.” 

Julius raised his eyebrows. 

“ Do I understand that you have come over specially to 
see me ? ” 

Mr. Ulrich smiled. 

“ Why not ? Yes, indeed. I have a matter I want to 
discuss with you, if you can spare me the time.” 

“ Why, of course, I have nothing urgent this afternoon 
or to-night. May I put you up for a day or two ? ” 

‘‘It is very kind of you. I must return to America 
to-night, however. But if you think well of my idea I 
shall return again in a few days’ time.” 

“Well, well, now. Make yourself at home. Have a 
cigar.” 

“ Thank you, I do not smoke. If you can really spare 
me the time, I will begin to lay my plans before you at 
once.” 

He coughed and looked round the room, and his eye 
alighted on Lena. He gave a little exclamation of surprise. 


146 WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 


Julius, who had quite forgotten her, turned in her direction. 
He barked out: 

“ My wife ! ” 

Mr. Ulrich immediately walked across the room and 
held out his hand to her. 

“ Mrs. Trevanna,” he said, “I am delighted to make 
your acquaintance.” 

The unaccustomed social attention quite unnerved 
Lena. She could only gasp: “Thank you . . . Thank 
you.” 

Mr. Ulrich looked slightly puzzled. He glanced from 
one to the other and then resumed his seat. Julius ap¬ 
peared to hesitate whether to order his wife out of the 
room, but apparently decided that her presence made no 
difference one way or the other. The only sound was the 
ticking of the tape machine. Mr. Ulrich leant forward on 
his knees, and as he spoke a tinge of colour enlivened his 
countenance : 

“ What I am about to propose to you may cause you 
considerable surprise, and I shall not ask you to come to 
any decision in the matter till my return from America. 
The idea has come to me slowly. It is the outcome of the 
growth of my experience—many, many long years in the 
film world. I think it began to take shape at the time when 
the Chinese, and indeed all the Eastern people, began to 
be absorbed by the fascination of moving picture work. 
Now, as you know, Mr. Trevanna, the cinema industry 
is the first industry in the world. It represents a larger 
flotation of capital, it employs more people, and pays 
greater dividends than any other two industries in the world 
put together. You and I, and perhaps a few others, hardly 
realise the power that is in our hands.” 

Julius looked up at him quickly. 

“ Is your idea—an international combine ? ” 

“ In a sense—yes. But my idea is more comprehensive 
than that. I am of opinion that what the famous League 


WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 147 


of Nations failed to accomplish, the Universal Film Trust 
could accomplish quite easily." 

“I'm afraid I can't see—the League of Nations ! What 
have we to do with politics ? " 

“ We might have everything to do with politics. If we 
could live up to the ideal which should inspire all parties 

to the agreement, we could-" 

“ What could we do ? " 

“ We could stop the earth ! " 

“ What the devil! " 

“ I do not mean that human life or activities would be 
stopped. On the contrary, they would be helped, and 
encouraged, and elevated. What I mean is that history 
could be stopped. There would be armies, but they would 
be armies in fustian. We could fight again the battle of 
the Marne, the battle of Poitiers, the battle of Marathon, 
but there would never again be bloodshed. There would 
be nations retaining their national characteristics but as 
nations they would have no claws or talons. There would 
be Governments, but they would be tools in our hands. 
We should enter the age of retrospection. We would wind 
up the history of the world. We would set it down, and 
reproduce it on the screens. All men would work simply 
and reverently for the good of mankind. Agriculture and 
manufacture and all arts and industries would still go on, 
of course, but there would be no international politics. 
With the power that we represent we could check any 
movement of political aggression. We could stop the 
production of all armaments except those made of wood 
and canvas." 

“ You must be mad " 

Mr. Ulrich smiled gently, and raised his hand. 

“ Mr. Trevanna," he continued, “ I need perhaps hardly 
point out to you that my life and work have not all been 
the outcome of a visionary existence. Many people 
consider me a hard, material man. Even my numerous 


148 WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 


benefactions have been ascribed as * good business/ I 
may mention that, in spite of your unique position in the 
British film world, you are not the first man I have ap¬ 
proached. I only crave your sympathetic consideration. 
As I say, I do not expect you to give your decision until I 
return from America.” 

Julius sucked the stump of his cigar, which had gone 
out. 

“ Might I ask—who else have you approached ? ” 

“ Ah Sing Fu.” 

“ Ah Sing Fu ” 

Lena observed her husband start and shrink back into 
the easy chair. Mr. Ulrich twisted his fingers around his 
bony knees and swayed backward and forwards. 

“ The world has yet to comprehend the Chinese. The 
Chinese are the most numerous, the most intelligent, the 
most immovable race on this earth. It may almost be 
said that they wound up their history some time ago. 
They have begun to find out how to live. I have spent 
many happy hours in the society of Ah Sing Fu. He is a 
philosopher, an idealist, and an extremely able and prac¬ 
tical man. As you know, he is the presiding genius of that 
wonderful group of Eastern film activities which have only 
come into force during the last fifteen years. It embraces 
the whole of China and Eastern Siberia and part of Japan. 
It has its ramifications throughout India and the Malay 
Archipelago. It is a bigger corporation than either yours 
or ours. Ah Sing Fu and I are the only people at present 
who have discussed this idea. I now come to you. Within 
the course of a few weeks trusted agents of ours will be 
active throughout Europe and Africa and that part of Asia 
not yet influenced by Ah Sing Fu.” 

“ But what does it all amount to ? How do you propose 
to go to work ? ” 

“ The nations of the world, Mr. Trevanna, are still 
living on paper credit as a result of the great war. They 


WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 149 


are, indeed, a lot of bankrupts. They can dress well and 
dine well and stuff the bills away into a drawer. They 
are just gambling on. Their very existence depends on 
the goodwill and good sense of men controlling the largest 
blocks of actual assets. We film industries are conducted 
on a cash basis. We represent the biggest, solidest control 
of capital in the world. Nothing can stand against it I ” 

“ Then we could shove the prices up.” 

“ We could, but that is not the idea of either Ah Sing Fu 
or myself. Our idea is simply a moral one. On the 
contrary, we think the charges should be reduced, the 
standard of production raised; the ego could be turned 
inwards to absorb the moral of the past and, through it, to 
determine the way to live.” 

The eyes of Julius were starting out of his head. He 
was obviously convinced that he was in the presence of a 
lunatic, a dangerous lunatic, and yet a person for whom he 
had a profound respect. He had chafed his fingers once 
badly pulling the strings against this very man. And Ah 
Sing Fu was a genius ; the whole film world acclaimed it. 

He was uncomfortable and disturbed, and suspicious. 
Why couldn’t they leave him alone comfortably piling up 
his millions. Who cared or believed in the “uplifting of 
humanity ? ” At the same time, if he opposed them, what 
might they not do ? His fortune was great, but his com¬ 
mitments were greater. He depended on America, and 
Russia, and even the East for many things. Unless he 
was circumspect, he might find himself marooned. He 
temporised. 

“ It's a big idea.” 

Mr. Ulrich blinked at the great salon and cracked a 
knuckle. Then he arose and walked to the window, and 
looked across the park. He appeared to be considering 
some new problem. Suddenly he turned and said quietly : 

“ This is a very beautiful house. Very quiet and charm¬ 
ing. It has suddenly occurred to me—Ah Sing Fu and I 


150 WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 


had almost determined to call a conference at Joachims 
in Prague at the end of the month, but when I come to 
think of it—I wonder whether we could trespass upon 
your hospitality! This would make an ideal meeting 
place. And it would be more convenient in many ways. 
You live here alone, do you not ? Of course, it all depends 
upon the word of Mrs. Trevanna. . . . " 

He smiled and bowed to her. Julius grunted and 
tugged at his little moustache. Lena did not speak. The 
shafts of unspoken venom passing between husband and 
wife must have been apparent to Mr. Ulrich, but he gave 
no recognition of it. Julius suddenly exclaimed: 

“ Yes, yes, certainly. Have it here, by all means/' 

But it was said less as a genial invitation than as an 
assertion that the word of Mrs. Trevanna didn't count one 
way or the other. 

“ Very kind, very kind of you indeed," murmured Mr. 
Ulrich. “ As you may imagine, there will be a great 
number of technicalities to discuss. It will be necessary 
to get in everyone, and possibly to—eradicate objectionable 
elements." 

He uttered the last sentence very slowly and clearly. 
There was a touch of velvet menace about it. Julius 
visualised Ah Sing Fu, Ulrich and Joachim eradicating 
“ objectionable elements." Joachim, he knew, was 
another of these international fanatics who were becoming 
so prolific. The centre of his operations was Prague, and 
he controlled the film interests of all Central Europe. These 
three together could eradicate anything. They were mad 
—stark, staring mad ; but they frightened him. Fortu¬ 
nately there was his friend, Jonkers, in Brussels. He was 
a good man, a good, solid man, with no nonsense about 
him. He would ring up Jonkers, and see what he thought. 
Between them perhaps they could cope with these lunatics, 
these visionaries. Damn it! what was his wife doing, 
suddenly walking over to this American and shaking hands, 


151 


WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 

saying she would like to have the conference here ? In his 
house ! He, who by his industry and genius, had built 
the place, and picked her out of the gutter. He had half a 
mind to cancel the whole thing. He was being rushed. 

Then that is settled, Mr. Trevanna. I do not mean 
that you will agree at present to join the combination, but 
that you will agree that we hold the conference here. It is 
so much more satisfactory than any written or wirelessed 
way of communicating. It is necessary that we should all 
know each other. The personal factor still remains the 
dominant force in the world.” 

Mr. Ulrich held out his hand, and Julius found himself 
gripping it. The vanity of wealth over-rode his other 
feelings. He desired to impress his rivals. 

“ Invite as many as you like,” he exclaimed. “ We 
could put up a hundred or two and not notice them in this 
place.” 

“ I do not think it will be necessary to ask more than 
about twelve or fifteen—just a central body—but the 
conference will naturally go on for several weeks. After 
formulating a broadly-designed scheme, it will be necessary 
to keep constantly in touch with our representatives in all 
parts of the world. There will be opposition and mis¬ 
understanding, and we shall have to clean it up bit by bit.” 

“ I will stroll down the garden with you.” 

Julius felt a sudden accentuated aversion to his wife. 
He was annoyed that she had been present. He felt that 
he was being made to look weak and pliable, and it angered 
him that she should have observed it. He scowled at her 
as he suggested the stroll in the garden. It was meant to 
imply very forcibly that her presence was undesirable. It 
was quite unnecessary, however. Lena made no attempt 
to follow. She froze into her former conditionjof sullen 
aloofness. Mr. Ulrich shook her hand, and the two men 
went into the garden. 

Lena watched them for some time talking earnestly 


152 WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 

beneath the cedar tree. Ulrich did most of the talking. 
He was emphasising his points deliberately and clearly, 
tapping the palm of his left hand with two fingers of his 
right. In rather less than an hour’s time, he took his 
departure. 

Julius came back into the house. He was in a very bad 
temper. He kept snapping his fingers, a characteristic 
sign of extreme tension and nervousness. When he saw 
her, he bawled at her: 

“ Make all preparations with the servants to entertain 
twenty men here for three weeks in August.” 

She felt tempted to reply : “ Don’t you mean, ‘ make all 
preparations with the other servants ? ’ ” but she forbore, 
and shrank away from him. Alone in her room, she 
thought: “ They are going to stop the earth . . . every¬ 
thing will cease . . . everything will be unreal for ever.” 

The unusual spell of heat continued. Three days later 
her husband remarked to her in the morning : 

“ Jonkers is coming to-night. Have the Dubarry room 
prepared for him.” 

She knew and detested this Jonkers. He was so very 
like her husband, only not so fat. He had a disgusting, 
oleaginous, over-familiar way of talking to her. He said 
one thing with his mouth and another with his eyes. He 
was cunning, and supercilious, and sensual. He some¬ 
times flattered her, but she knew from his eyes that he 
thought no more of her than her husband did. Never¬ 
theless, she was interested to hear of the visit. She knew 
that it was in some way connected with the visit of Mr. 
Ulrich. All over the world were springing up what her 
husband called “ these crazy internationalists.” Ulrich, 
Ah Sing Fu, Joachim, and these others were of that per¬ 
suasion. They only awaited some lever. Jonkers and 
Julius Trevanna would never agree with the rest. They 
would plot behind the scenes. They would play for their 
own hands. 


WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 153 

She knew that, and she knew it more fully when she 
saw them together that night after dinner. She pretended 
to make herself scarce, but she was watching and listening. 
Jonkers stayed two days and nights, and the two friends 
talked far into the night. It was very difficult. Julius 
was suspicious, and she had to appear more dormant and 
preoccupied than ever. Only once did she manage to 
overhear a portion of a conversation which completely 
showed the trend of their ambitions. 

“ Of course, we shall have to agree/' Julius was saying. 
“ It’s too big a thing. But this is where we'll come in, 

Jonkers-" He explained some technical suggestion of 

Ulrich's. Lena could not understand it, but she under¬ 
stood the chuckle of the Flemish guest, when he inter¬ 
jected : 

“ Keep that dark, dear boy. You and I between us, we 
should make four million a year clear profit over that—if 
we pretend, see ? " 

Followed no relief from the prevailing high tempera¬ 
ture. Jonkers went and others came. Tapes and tele¬ 
phones and wires were always active, and still the world was 
unsuspicious of being stopped. July came and went and 
the day of the conference was drawing near. 

Lena was pledged to secrecy. Not a word was to be 
breathed. The affair was to have the appearance of an 
ordinary house party. The servants would know nothing 
about the guests. If it came out that all the film magnates 
were assembled at one point, the stock markets of the world 
would be in panic. 

Ah Sing Fu was the first arrival. He came with a 
retinue of three servants and a secretary. He drifted into 
the house like an autumn leaf indicating the wane of the 
year—an old man, with a thin, white beard, suave, gentle, 
impenetrable. Lena would never know him, but she felt 
that she could trust him. 

“ No man was ever so wise as some Chinamen look." 

L 



154 WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 

Ah Sing Fu was like that. There was something about 
him big, disinterested, indestructible—a pioneer of per- 
petuity. 

He and his retainers glided about the house in their 
slippered feet. Their presence seemed permeating but 
intangible. Ulrich followed within twelve hours. Then 
came Joachim, a jovial giant, with a deep penetrating 
voice and a laugh that was good to hear. Three others 
arrived in the night as if by magic. Rene Caradoc, a 
Frenchman; Raddaes, a Portuguese; and an indeter¬ 
minate person called Linnsen, who might have been 
anything from a Moor to a Chicago stock-raiser. They 
vanished to their rooms, met in the morning, and talked in 
little groups over their coffee. The conference was already 
begun. Golf was played in the afternoon, obviously with 
the idea of giving an impression of normality. Joachim 
broke a club, and his laugh could be heard across the park. 
He had probably never played the game before. The 
afternoon brought two gentlemen from South America and 
one from Cape Town. Lena was beginning to lose the 
thread of their identities. Everything was becoming 
dreamlike, fantastic. The heat was enervating. There 
was an informal meeting of all parties in the library, and 
Julius informed her that her presence was not desirable. 
Again in the night arrived Moder, another American, and a 
Hindu, with a retinue of five. Within the week the con¬ 
ference was complete. Twenty-three sat round the circular 
table in the library. All the doors were closed. Lena 
wandered about the grounds or sat in the garden dreaming. 
What were they going to do ? What would be the outcome 
of it, this conspiracy to stop the earth ? She liked Ulrich, 
and she liked Joachim and Ah Sing Fu. They were good 
men. She was convinced of that. But—this heat! She 
dreaded it, the stopping of the earth, retrospection, going 
back, nothing happening again, everything to be filmed and 
unreal. She would not be able to stand it. 


WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 155 

While things went on there always seemed a vestige of 
hope . . . anything might happen. But if they were 
successful - 

She met them on the terrace and at meal times, pleasant, 
charming men for the most part. They were very kind to 
her, very considerate, but pre-occupied. Big things were 
on the move. Code messages arrived and were despatched 
all day and night. The weeks dragged by. She over¬ 
heard occasional remarks which gave her an inkling of 
development. There appeared to be trouble in South 
Russia and the Balkans. There would be, of course. 
Joachim and Ulrich were very active over this. Someone 
was being squeezed out. The operation appeared to be 
conducted through a process of buying and selling stock 
on the Vienna stock exchange. It was all quite incom¬ 
prehensible. 

At the end of the third week two more men 
appeared; one a German, the other an Albanian. They 
were initiated into the mysteries. Once she heard one of 
them remark : “ The Dutch are obstinate/' She knew 
they would be. Her heart went out to the Dutch. Then 
the crushing process began on Amsterdam. Someone else 
was superseded. It seemed horrible. The whole earth 
was being cleaned up. And all the time Julius Trevanna 
and Jonkers were playing some game of their own. Before 
the others, they did not appear very intimate, but Lena 
knew that Julius invariably visited Jonkers in his room 
at night after the others had retired. There was a private 
telephone and wireless service there. One night she tried 
to listen at the keyhole. She could hear them talking, but 
could not hear what they said. And suddenly the door 
opened and Julius came out. He caught hold of her arm 
and hurt her. 

“ What the devil are you doing ? ” he muttered, and he 
flung her across the passage. 

That night she did not sleep. 


156 WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 


The next day she sought out Ulrich. She managed to 
detach him from a group on the terrace. She whispered : 

“ Mr. Ulrich, may I have a private word with you ? ” 

“ Why, certainly, dear lady.” 

“ Will you come to the end of the second orchid house 
in ten minutes' time ? ” 

When he came she could not get her breath. She was 
terrified. She felt sure Julius would know. If she be¬ 
trayed him, he would kill her. She said : 

“ Mr. Ulrich, forgive me. I am worried. I know you 
are good—you are all good men. But this power you are 
wielding—suppose one day this power should . . . get 
into the hands of someone who is not good ? ” 

Mr. Ulrich looked at her kindly, and patted her hand. 

“ My dear lady,” he answered, “ you are quite right. 
And we are taking every precaution. As a matter of fact, 
the combination can only exist while it is a moral force. 
You may be sure that immediately it began to be abused 
humanity would turn and rend it. Our ambition is to keep 
it dark for many years until its activities have produced 
concrete results.” 

“You mean to say that the world won’t know it has been 
stopped ? ” 

He laughed. 

“Yes, that is what I mean.” 

“ But suppose—suppose someone inside abused it.” 

“ There is a slight risk of that, of course. But he 
would have to be wonderfully astute to deceive Ah Sing Fu 
and—some of the others. Has anyone arrived at the 
conference whose character you suspect ? ” 

“ No.” 

“There, there, you must not distress yourself, Mrs. 
Trevanna. Everything is going on splendidly. The 
meeting has exceeded my wildest anticipations.” 

A messenger came seeking him. The conference was 
in session. Lena ordered the car and told the chauffeur to 


WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 157 


drive fast. She wanted air. The heat was getting un¬ 
bearable. On her return the party were again on the 
terrace. They seemed in very good spirits. She heard 
Joachim say : “ On Thursday, then, we will sign.” 

Ulrich replied : “Yes. If the reply from Brotzel is 
satisfactory.” 

She moved among them, and with shy diffidence pre¬ 
sided at the silver tea urn. The men were all laughing and 
joking. Joachim suddenly slapped his leg. 

“ I have it! I have it! I know what we must do,” he 
exclaimed. 

" What is that ? ” 

“ We must film it.” 

“ Film what ? ” 

“ Thursday. It must go down to posterity. The day 
when the Conference was signed. All the incidents of the 
day. The members signing—having tea, talking, enjoying 
the special delights of Mrs. Trevanna’s hospitality.” 

Ulrich nodded sagely. 

“ There would be no objection, I'm sure, provided that 
the films were not released for many years.” 

“ Naturally. What do you say, gentlemen ? ” 

No one objected, although Ah Sing Fu seemed to con¬ 
sider it a superfluous indignity. Rather trivial; neverthe¬ 
less, he nodded acquiescence. Jonkers smiled cynically. 

“ Yes, of course. Very good. You must be in this, too, 
Mrs. Trevanna. Wife of British delegate ministering to 
her husband, eh ? ” 

The suggestion was greeted with shouts of approval. 
Lena frowned and felt uncomfortable. What a mockery ! 
And all these years she had wanted to play—now, " the 
wife of British delegate ministering to his wants.” The 
future generations would never know. No one would know 
except Jonkers, mocking and sneering behind his black 
moustache. How unbearable! What could she do to 
stop it all ? 


158 WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 


On^the Wednesday news came that Brotzel—whoever 
he was—had been won to the cause. The coast was clear. 
The next day the Conference would sign and break up. 
The world would begin to stop. 

That night Lena slept for an hour, and then awoke with 
a start. She rose and went to the window. She pressed 
her temples against the pane. The heat was intolerable. 
She looked out into the park. Nothing stirred. Every¬ 
thing was unnaturally still. The silence was oppressive. 
“ The world has stopped ... the world has stopped/' 
she thought. “ Nothing will ever happen again. There 
will be no more love, no more romance—only make- 
believe. It will get hotter and hotter. The sun will 
scorch it to a cinder, and the other side will freeze. Every¬ 
one will die, and either burn up or freeze. Nothing will 
matter. Nothing will have any value. It will all be as 
though it had never existed. Perhaps it never did exist. 
Perhaps it's just a dream—a film.” 

Suddenly burying her face in her hands, she muttered: 

“ Oh God ! give me power to be real—just once.” 

The day dawned clear and hot. The terrace glittered 
with sunlight and crisp shadows. An excellent day for 
“ shooting.” The operators were already busy in the park. 
She could see Joachim laughing and striking preposterous 
attitudes. Ah Sing Fu fanning himself unconcernedly. 
A small party having breakfast on the terrace. Ulrich 
talking quietly and authoritatively. Where was Julius 
Trevanna ? Ah ! the inevitable cigar. He strolls—or 
rather rolls—like a bloated elephant to the easy chair to 
put his feet up, a newspaper tucked under his arm. A 
breakfast tray on a table by his left side, the plates and 
knives dishevelled. He has been for the paper. He looks 
irritable and bored. A fat band of flesh bulges above his 
collar. His thick lips are sucking at the cigar. 

Down she goes. The sunlight blinds and dizzies her. 
She could almost faint with that first step into the light. 


WHEN THE EARTH STOPPED 159 


Nervousness, a kind of stage-fright, perhaps. Very, very 
slowly, like a cat, she creeps across the terrace. A little 
man by the top of the steps is watching her, and she is 
pleased. Years and years go by before she reaches the 
table, but it doesn’t matter because the world has stopped. 
Her actions become slower and slower, and more mechani¬ 
cal. She takes ages to choose the knife in such a collection. 
The butter-knife would be foolish—possibly ineffective. 
The bread-knife ? No, that sharp, busy little thing so 
useful for cutting ham. Cutting ham! She laughs 
inaudibly, but Julius does not stir. The aggressive line 
of fat above the collar entices her. She is conscious of her 
face clean cut in profile, expressing a real emotion that 
shall go down to posterity, of the deliberate grace of her 
posture as she slowly raises her arm and—thrusts down¬ 
wards above the collar, and of the voice of the little man 
at the top of the steps : 

“ That’s right, Mrs. Trevanna, not too fast. Hold it! 
Fine . . . fine . . . My God! what have you done ! ” 
. . . The first big part Julius Trevanna had ever given 
her an opportunity to play. 











































































* 










































■ 








- 










































WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 

“ Confound that Mrs. Buswell! ” 

Twenty minutes to nine, and she had not either called 
me or brought my early cup of tea! During the four 
years in which I had held the distinguished position of 
sub-manager to the Southrepps Bank in Baker Street— 
the youngest sub-manager ever appointed in the whole 
record of this famous Southrepps banking association, 
sir—it had always been my proud boast that I had never 
been one minute late in the morning, not one minute. 
Apart from the eagerness and interest I flatter myself I 
have always taken in my work, I consider it a valuable 
example to the junior clerks. I like to be at my desk when 
they arrive, and to grade the quality of my morning saluta¬ 
tion to a precise scale of minutes. Sharp on time and I say 
breezily: “ Good morning, Mr. So-and-so! ” Four 

minutes late: "Morning.” Five minutes late: a curt 
nod. Anything between five and eight minutes : a black 
scowl. Anything beyond eight minutes: a peremptory 
demand for explanation. Punctuality and precision have 
always been the most pronounced of my characteristics. 
To these I probably owe my success in life. 

Now, I occupied a pleasant suite of rooms in a small 
house in Motcombe Street. Mrs. Buswell was my land¬ 
lady. I did my utmost to inculcate into her the value and 
importance of these two strong principles, and in a fair 
way I succeeded. On the whole I could not complain of 
Mrs. Buswell. She knocked on my door every morning 
at half-past eight, and set down a cup of tea. I would 
then rise, drink the tea, shave, have a bath, dress, and 
161 


162 WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 


enter my sitting-room at ten minutes to nine. My break¬ 
fast was invariably ready. Breakfast would occupy 
fifteen minutes. I would then smoke one cigarette, glance 
at the newspaper, put on my boots, and leave the house at 
nine-fifteen. I would walk along a quiet street parallel to 
the Marylebone Road, and arrive at the bank about three 
minutes before half-past nine. At half-past nine—I say— 
I would be seated at my desk, pen in hand. Our manager, 
Mr. Woodward, did not come till ten. 

But recently Mrs. Buswell had developed a regrettable 
lapse. On Monday she had been three minutes late. On 
Wednesday, four and a half. On Thursday, so late that I 
had to go without marmalade, and to take a 'bus along the 
Marylebone Road. I would rather go without breakfast 
altogether than be late at the bank. And now on this 
Friday morning she was again ten minutes late and there 
was no sound of her. I rang the bell and waited, but there 
was no answer. I went out on to the landing and called 
down : “ Mrs. Buswell, are you there ? ” 

I could get no answer to this. The minutes were crowd¬ 
ing by. I was angry. I believe I swore. In any case I 
hastily donned a dressing-gown and slippers and explored 
the basement. There was no sign of Mrs. Buswell, and the 
fire was not lighted. Mystery of mysteries ! I went back 
and consulted my watch. Had it gone wrong ? Was I 
several hours fast ? But no, I am a man peculiarly sensi¬ 
tive to time. I knew by my sensations that it must be 
somewhere about eight-forty-five. Without more ado I 
went upstairs and knocked on Mrs. Buswell’s bedroom door. 
Again there was no answer. I knocked louder. A dread 
suspicion came to me. Perhaps she had died in the night, 
or been murdered ? 

I boldly opened the door. Mrs. Buswell was not there. 
The bed was sketchily made. I could not tell whether it 
had been slept in or not. There was no one else in the 
house. It was all most provoking. She must have gone 


WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 163 

out somewhere—perhaps to get some bread or milk. 
Anyway, I could not afford to waste any more time. I 
went back to my room, shaved in cold water, had a bath, 
and dressed myself. By that time it was seven minutes 
past nine. Still no sign of Mrs. Buswell. I went down into 
the kitchen. I just had time to make myself a cup of tea, 
and then, by taking the Marylebone Road 'bus, I could be 
at the bank at my usual time. I filled the kettle, and struck 
a match to light the gas-stove, and then I had my second 
shock. The gas was cut off. 

“ Now, that’s a queer, mysterious thing ! ” I thought. I 
had a cheerless breakfast of bread and butter and cold 
water. I would not be late at the bank. I was just pre¬ 
paring to go when I realized that my boots were not cleaned, 
and yesterday had been muddy. I then really did swear 
at the defaulting landlady. To turn up at the bank with 
yesterday’s mud on one’s boots is an even more heinous 
offence than being five minutes late. I fetched my boots 
and cleaned them. 

In the end I had to run to the corner where the 'buses 
passed. Of course, there was not one in sight! I waited 
several minutes, fuming with impatience. No ’bus came, 
neither was there anyone about. 

“ What’s the matter with the world ? ” I exclaimed, 
angrily. I crossed the road and ran down the side street 
that led to Baker Street. I ran nearly all the way. I did 
not pass a soul, but so consumed was I with my special 
complexity I hardly noted the fact. It is in any case a 
source of pride to me to be able to state that when I entered 
the bank it was just one minute to the half-hour. I was 
at my desk by half-past, pen in hand. We had at that time 
only two junior clerks, Weaks and Burton. (Burton, 
indeed, was really only an office boy.) Of course, they 
were both late. Burton had been late on several occasions 
recently and I was in a bad temper. I had had practically 
no breakfast in order to be in time, and I prepared myself 


164 WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 


to put Master Burton in his place. Five-and-twenty 
minutes to ten and neither had arrived. Twenty to, and 
a deadly stillness pervaded the bank premises. 

I became eerily conscious of a silence that I had never 
felt in my life before. There was no sound of traffic outside 
at all! 

“ Perhaps there's been a strike," I thought. “ And 
then, of course, Weaks and Burton would both be unavoid¬ 
ably late." 

But I didn’t like it at all. I went out to the front door 
and looked up and down Baker Street. There were no 
vehicles at all, no people, no life of any sort! 

An almost unrealizable horror gripped me. I looked up 
at windows, peered into basements, and shouted at the top 
of my voice. There was no answer, no response. The 
position was too staggering to be grasped. Horrors, visions, 
black misgivings crept through me. Prophetic utterances, 
and Biblical quotations. 

“ And one shall be taken and the other left! " 

Had everyone been taken ? and I the only other left ? 
I am not an hysterical man. I have always been sensible, 
orthodox, and practical. I am a member of the Church of 
England, and an upholder of the Throne and the Unionist 
party. 

I said to myself, firmly: “ William, get a grip on 
yourself l " 

I went back to my desk and waited. Perhaps Mr. 
Woodward would turn up at ten. He was seldom late. 
It would be in any case an immense relief to discuss the 
amazing phenomenon with someone. Ten o’clock came, 
a quarter past, no Mr. Woodward. Then, indeed, I did 
become slightly unbalanced. I had a sudden inspiration. 
The telephone ! I rushed to the instrument, lifted the 
receiver, and screamed into it: “ Hullo ! Hullo ! Hullo ! 
Is anyone there ? " 


WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 165 


There was a pause, and then I distinctly heard a voice 
say, weakly: 

“ Hullo, who is that ? ” 

“ It's I, William Mears, of the Southrepps Bank. Who 
are you, for God’s sake ? ” 

I listened. There was no sound but the drone of the 
wires. I waited, and called again and again. The low 
hum of the wires continued. Then I thought to myself: 
“ Nevertheless, the telephone is working. If it is working, 
someone must be at the power-station.” 

Where were the power-stations ? I had distinctly heard 
that voice at the other end—a man’s. 

I sat calmly at my desk, almost afraid to think. Eleven 
o’clock came, eleven-fifteen, eleven-thirty. I hope you 
will place it to my credit that between eleven-thirty and 
twelve I quietly continued my office routine as though 
nothing were the matter. We were within a week of our 
quarterly balances, and there was much to do—especially 
with all the staff away. 

Just before twelve, however, I thought to myself : 

“ What’s the good of banking when there is no one to 
bank ? ” 

I shut up the ledger, put on my hat, and went out, after 
carefully locking everything up. The sun was shining, and 
the roads, wet from yesterday’s downpour, gaily reflected 
the blue and white sky. In that strange hour it gave me a 
curious sense of comfort to observe light cirrus clouds 
moving across the sky. Yes, something was alive then. 

I walked up Baker Street. The doors of some of the 
shops were open, and I went in. There were neither 
shopkeepers nor customers. I could have helped myself 
to things of untold value. At the corner of Orchard Street 
was a newspaper placard. It said: “ Latest from New¬ 
market.” There was no date on the paper. It seemed 
grimly ironic to think of horse-racing when Oxford Street 
was entirely deserted. There was Messrs. Harridge’s vast 


166 WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 


emporium. One of the doors was open and I went in. 
I walked through endless show-rooms, filled with clothes, 
books, stationery, silver, plate, glass, all utterly without 
value or interest to me. Then I came to a large provision 
department, and my interest quickened. I remembered 
that I was hungry. There were hundreds of hams, tongues, 
fowls, quails, and all kinds of thing in jelly. Without any 
scruples I devoured two jolly little quails in aspic and a fruit 
tart. The wine department was packed with every conceiv¬ 
able wine, spirit, and liqueur, but I am a temperate man, 
and these things did not tempt me. It was, moreover, 
very necessary to keep a clear head. I left Messrs. Harridge’s 
and went farther on down Oxford Street, I was passing the 
premises of a rival bank, and I went in. It was all open ; 
moreover, the safe was unlocked. I could have helped 
myself to a bag or two of golden sovereigns and a sack of 
Treasury notes, but what is the use of five thousand pounds 
when you cannot even buy the sound of a human voice ? 

Just before reaching Regent Street I had a most emotional 
experience. On the roof of a hosier’s shop I espied a 
black cat. It was mewing piteously. Now, I have never 
been very fond of cats, but I suddenly felt an overwhelming 
desire for the company of this black friend. I ran into 
the shop and up the stairs. With great difficulty I managed 
to get on to the roof. The cat had disappeared. What 
became of it I never knew. I felt terribly affected by losing 
this cat. I said to myself: 

“ William, you are becoming mawkish. You must pull 
yourself together.” 

In Regent Street a cheering sight met my gaze—a 
florist’s shop. I hurried in. There were masses of cut 
roses, lilac, carnations, and violets. There were plants and 
dwarf trees in pots. I examined them all carefully. The 
cut flowers were in water, the plants were growing. The 
general scheme of things began to take shape in my mind. 
The world was alive, the sun was in the heavens, the clouds 


WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 167 

and the good air were just as usual. There was life going 
on of some sort—flowers, a black cat, a voice on the tele¬ 
phone. It appeared to be just human life conspicuous by 
its absence. I gathered together a large bunch of dark red 
roses. I buried my face in them, and clung to them as the 
only connecting link with the things that mattered. I took 
them with me on my further pilgrimage down West. 

Piccadilly Circus was like a neglected dust-heap. Refuse 
was scattered here and there. Near the Tube station were 
holes in the wooden pavement, as though someone had 
started to dig it up and then gone away. I wandered down 
the Haymarket, across Trafalgar Square, past Charing 
Cross, and then to the Embankment. The dear old river 
looked just the same as usual, except that there was no sign 
of seagulls or pigeons. The little waves were lapping 
against the piers of the bridge. The river in any case was 
another live thing. It was crowded with barges, lighters, 
and small merchantmen, all idle and deserted. I sought 
avidly for any sign of smoke. There was none. 

I went along the Embankment as far as Westminster, 
then turned back past the House of Commons and along 
to the Green Park. The Green Park soothed me. It 
was green, and the trees and bushes were all in leaf. I knelt 
on the grass and examined it closely. Was it actually 
growing ? or had it reached its crisis and this was the last 
day of all ? I could not tell, but the grass looked fresh 
and healthy enough. 

By the time I reached Buckingham Palace it was a 
quarter to two, and I felt hungry again. I went into the 
Palace unchallenged. I wandered about the vast corridors 
and reception-rooms. At last I came to the kitchens and 
larders. I found there a profusion of food little less impos¬ 
ing than that at Messrs. Harridge’s. 

“ Well, after all,” I thought, “ why not ? His Majesty 
would hardly begrudge a meal to his only remaining sub 
ject.” 


168 WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 


I made a fire with wood and coal, and cooked myself a 
cutlet and boiled some Brussels sprouts ( I am very fond 
of sprouts). I placed the meal on a tray and carried it 
up to the Throne Room. I sat on the Throne of England 
and solemnly consumed my cutlet. I am probably the 
only man who has ever eaten a cutlet whilst seated on a 
throne. It was not very comfortable, but the irony of the 
situation pleased me. Humour has never been considered 
my strong point, but I was sensible enough to see that 
whatever humour I had must be developed in order to 
sustain me through my amazing ordeal. 

I kept on pinching myself and saying : “ Well, of course, 
all this is simply a dream/’ 

Then I would go to the window and look out. But no, I 
never felt so vital and awake before in my life. Every¬ 
thing was vivid and tangible. It had not that nebulous 
quality which characterized a dream. Something abnormal 
and supernatural had happened, and I had to face it. I 
had heard of people finding themselves in colourably 
similar predicaments—being lost on a desert island, for 
instance—and I knew that the great thing was to retain 
one’s sanity. 

I had really hardly yet begun to think. I was observing 
and taking my bearings. Serious thinking must come later. 
I must simply keep sane. 

In one of the courtyards of the Palace I came across 
several large motor-cars. Another bright inspiration came 
to me. During the war I had had the honour of being 
allowed to drive a V.A.D. ambulance. I knew quite a bit 
about cars. I hurried to the first one, a large touring 
Daimler. To my intense delight, the self-starter acted 
promptly. I released the clutch and the thing moved. 
This was perhaps the most satisfactory experience of the 
day. With a car I could accomplish a great deal. I raced 
out into the Mall. If need be, I could escape to the 
country, go up North, or to the coast. There must be life 


WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 169 

somewhere. Then it occurred to me that it would be an 
interesting experiment to go first to the Zoo. I returned 
up Regent Street and I could not help grinning when I 
realized that I automatically had to toot my horn and slow 
up at corners. I was at the Zoo in less than fifteen minutes. 
Leaving the car outside I clambered over the turnstiles. 
My worst apprehensions were fulfilled. AH the animals 
had vanished. I ran from house to house. There was no 
living thing. By some of the houses the ground appeared 
to be scratched up, as though the animals might have 
scratched their way out and escaped. Here and there I 
came across bleached bones and skulls. I believe I could 
have made a life-long friend of a sea-lion if only the thing 
had been there. Once I thought I saw a mouse scamper 
across a jackal's cage, but I could not be certain. 

I gave up the Zoo and returned to my car. What should 
I do ? After mature reflection I decided to give up going 
into the country till the morrow. I would thoroughly 
explore London first. After all there seemed more prob¬ 
ability of meeting people, or finding some solution here 
rather than among the fields and commons. I went round 
Regent's Park to the Finchley Road—and then on to 
Hampstead, keeping my eyes skinned all the time for any 
appearance of life. I went all through Hampstead and 
Highgate, and then through Camden Town, Islington and 
Highbury. I made my way back to the City and the 
East-end. I went to St. Paul's Cathedral, and entered it 
questioningly. The great temple of the people gave me 
back no answer. 

I crawled slowly down Cheapside and Fleet Street. My 
eyes were constantly intrigued by advertisements. “ So- 
and-so’s Soap." “ Broadstairs is so Bracing." “ A ready¬ 
made suit for seventy shillings." “ Give her Bovril," 

" George Robey to-night at the Coliseum." 

§|I must keep sane. 


M 


170 WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 


Late in the afternoon I went back to the bank. Nothing 
had changed. I tried the telephone again, but this time 
I did not even hear the hum of the wires. I was feeling 
physically exhausted and mentally overwrought by the 
day’s experience. Where should I spend the night ? 

I had the choice of Buckingham Palace, the Savoy or 
Carlton, or my own bed. I quickly decided in favour of 
the latter. But first of all I must have another good meal. 
It surprised me that in this respect I felt well and eager 
for good things. I eventually went down to the Carlton, 
and once more routed out the kitchens. I venture to say 
that I prepared myself a meal that the chef himself would 
not have been too contemptuous of. 

After my dinner I lay back in the lounge in the Carlton 
and reflected. (I almost wished I had worn evening 
dress I) It was certainly a situation which demanded 
profound reflection. 

“ One shall be taken and the other left.” 

Assuming that there had been some cataclysmic spiritual 
manifestation, why should all the others be taken and I 
left ? I carefully reviewed the record of my past life. I 
could conscientiously say that I had little to reproach 
myself with. I had always been scrupulously honest, 
industrious, and sincere. I had been a regular and devout 
communicant at St. Mary’s Church, Marylebone. I had 
no recollection of ever having done a contemptible or mean 
action. I may on occasions have been a little quick¬ 
tempered, a little uncharitable to my subordinates, but 
surely not sufficiently so to arouse the wrath of God. 

But what was the position? What was God’s idea? 
I found myself alone, and in charge not only of the South- 
repps Bank in Baker Street, but of the whole of London. 
I was King, Prime Minister, and proprietor. I could go 
and draw out a hundred million pounds in cash to-morrow 
and drive away—whither ? 

But more practical details began to impress themselves. 


WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 171 

At the present moment London was full of fresh food, fruit, 
and vegetables. On the other hand, there was no electric 
light or gas. There was no one to attend to the water or 
the drainage, or to scavenging in general. The streets 
were already untidy. In a few days all the food would go 
bad. In a week’s time the whole place would be pestilenti¬ 
ally insanitary. No, it was obviously the wisest course to 
clear out. It would be best to find a small house by itself 
somewhere in the country or near the sea, a house with a 
well, perhaps. I could take with me stores of tinned food, 
sufficient to last for years ; and then I could grow vegetables 
and fruit. I would go to one of the libraries and get books 
on this subject. The sea was the most attractive proposi¬ 
tion. Perhaps some foreign ship would come along. Were 
all countries and cities like this ? Possibly not. And yet, 
there was no suggestion of a local annihilation, no suspicion 
of poison-gas or plague. In this case there would be the 
gruesome evidence of dead bodies. Everyone had just 
vanished. I was entirely alone. And yet—what was that 
voice on the telephone ? 

The evening was drawing on. I left the Carlton, drove 
up the Haymarket in my car, called at a stores, and com¬ 
mandeered several boxes of candles. I could see that 
another difficulty was going to be bread. I must store 
quantities of flour, and read up from books how to make 
bread. In the meantime, there were plenty of dry unsweet¬ 
ened biscuits in tins. I filled up my car—or rather, His 
Majesty’s car—with all the edibles for my immediate use, 
and then drove back to my rooms in Motcombe Street. 

I was thoroughly worn out, but I found the sight of 
my small familiar properties comforting. I smoked and 
reflected for another hour, and then I went to bed. Having 
persuaded myself that I could do nothing but trust to 
God and my good conscience, I soon fell into a profound 
sleep. 

X don’t know how long I had been sleeping when I was 


172 WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 

disturbed by a disconcerting noise. I awakened with a 
start, and listened. When I realized what it was I could 
extract little comfort from a sound which, although unusual 
in the room I occupied, was quite familiar as a human 
experience. 

It was the sound of a mouse or rat nibbling in the wains¬ 
coting in a corner of the room. Now, it had always been a 
boast of Mrs. Buswell’s that her house was free from vermin 
of any sort, and I knew that this was no idle boast. I threw 
a boot into the corner, and the sound ceased. In five 
minutes’ time, however, it started again. When one's 
nerves are already a little on edge, there is nothing so 
disconcerting in the stillness of the night as this restless 
gnaw, gnaw, with the uncertainty of the progress and exact 
location of the rodent. I lighted a candle and banged on 
the floor again. Again there was a pause, but only of the 
briefest duration. I left the candle burning, and so tired 
was I that after a time I did fall asleep. It must have been 
several hours later when I awoke with an involuntary 
start, warned by some foreboding movement of the quilt. 
I opened my eyes in time to see a large brown rat scuttle 
from the bed and dart out of sight. My heart beat violently 
with pure dread. 

Now, in nearly all living creatures there is some element 
of companionableness, but in the rat—no ! It is surely the 
most sinister figure, next to the snake, in all organic life. 
I yearned for living contact, but with the rat—oh, dear, no ! 
I leapt out of bed. The candle was guttering in its socket, 
and I quickly lighted another. I shouted and hit the floor 
with my boots. There was no sign of the rat. However, 
I found the hole through which he had come, and I fever¬ 
ishly stuffed it up with a towel dipped in paraffin. But 
I knew I should not sleep again that night. I lighted 
more candles. I opened my bedroom door an inch or two, 
and I could not be certain, but I fancied I heard scuttling 
and scuffling on the linoleum of the passage. I shut the 


WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 173 

door quickly and spread another towel along the bottom 
of it. 

That decided me. First thing in the morning I would 
load up my car and leave London. It was just what one 
might have expected. Directly humanity departed, these 
awful things would come into their own. In a few days 
London would probably be overrun with rats. I took down 
a book and read until daylight filtered between the window 
curtains. 

As soon as it was light enough I arose. I went first to 
see if my good car was outside. I don’t know what I 
thought could have happened to it, but in this crumbling 
world I realized that the Daimler was the only friend I had. 
The sight of it in the road beneath almost brought a lump 
into my throat. When I had breakfasted I made a list 
of the things I must not forget to take with me, not for¬ 
getting petrol and clothes. There would be a certain 
pleasant satisfaction in rummaging in the big stores, 
helping myself to a fur overcoat worth a thousand pounds, 
and choosing the finest linen and wool. Then I would have 
a clock, and a diary, for I decided during the night that, 
whatever the future held in store for me, I would accept 
philosophically. Within my capacity I would lead a 
normal life. I would shave and dress meticulously, as 
befitted the sub-manager of the Southrepps Bank. And I 
would set everything down and keep a record, so that if 
there were some ultimate solution of this crazy problem 
I should be in a stronger position to deal with it. Moreover, 
an ordered and disciplined life would keep me sane. 

I made out my list, collected a few household goods, and 
went out to the car. I put the things in the car, and was 
just about to board it when an appalling sight met my 
gaze. I could do nothing but walk round the car and 
mutter, “ My God ! ” 

All the four tyres had been gnawed to ribbons l 

I thought of my unpleasant visitor of the night and a cold 


174 WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 


horror gripped my heart. It was not that there was any¬ 
thing very surprising in a rat gnawing through a motor- 
tyre, but there was a suggestion of deliberation about this. 
The tyres had not been eaten. They were just ripped to 
pieces as though for a purpose. 

I had to admonish myself roundly for giving way to an 
explosion of despair. 

“ All right, William, don’t lose your hair. There are 
plenty of other cars in London. You saw hundreds 
yesterday.” 

I remembered that there were three taxi-cabs on the rank 
in the Marylebone Road. Without hesitating a second I 
ran down the street and turned the corner. There was no 
need for me to cross the road. The three cabs were resting 
on their iron rims, the tyres all flat and torn ! 

“ Steady ! Steady ! ” I thought. “ There must be some 
locked up in garages that the rats wouldn’t have been able 
to get at.” 

I walked towards the wealthy residential quarters of 
Portland Place and Harley Street. Some of the garages 
were locked up, and I had to batter down the doors with 
iron bars or anything I could find. It was a pilgrimage ol 
despair. I spent the whole morning wandering from street 
to street, from garage to garage. I inspected hundreds of 
cars, but not one had a tyre intact. 

I lunched at the Carlton again, and attempted to formu¬ 
late a new plan. Of course, there was nothing to prevent 
me walking out of London, but how was I to carry all my 
kit ? I might get a barrow and load that up, but it would 
be an arduous journey, and owing to the sedentary life I 
had always led I was not very strong, and not a very good 
walker. London is by no means an easy place to walk out 
of. It would mean at least a ten or twelve-mile walk, 
pushing a heavy barrow. But there seemed no alternative. 
I could not spend another night in this awful city, alone 
amongst the loathsome creatures. 


WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 175 


It took me nearly two hours to find a barrow, which I 
eventually did in Co vent Garden Market. I trundled it 
up the deserted streets to Messrs. Harridge’s. But on my 
wanderings in search of the barrow I made another signi¬ 
ficant discovery. You may remember that on the previous 
day the wooden pavement outside Piccadilly Tube Station 
gave me the impression that someone had begun to dig 
it up and had then neglected it. I now discovered that this 
was something very different. It was a warren of small 
holes leading into the earth. The same condition prevailed 
on the Haymarket side of the Tube, and also at Leicester 
Square and Oxford Circus. 

After making this discovery I went tentatively into 
Piccadilly Tube Station, and went a little way down the 
spiral staircase till it was too dark to see. A horrible odour 
assailed my nostrils, and I hastily retreated. So that was 
it! It required no special astuteness to envisage that vast 
warren and storehouse beneath, with arteries connecting 
with the whole underworld of London. I thought of the 
many evenings I had travelled in the Tubes about theatre 
time, the gay lighting, pretty women in opera cloaks and 
jolly youngsters out for an evening’s fun, and then with a 
shudder I thought of it now committed to eternal darkness 
and foulness, controlled, moreover, by a mysterious cunning 
and sense of order. The thought was unbearable. 

When I arrived at Harridge’s with my barrow I was 
trembling all over. I wandered over the premises with my 
list, and chose the things I wanted. It took much longer 
than I had anticipated, and in the course of it I was sub¬ 
jected to further ominous misgivings. For one thing, 
whereas on the previous day there had been scores of boxes 
of candles, to-day there was not one in the building. 
Neither were there any cheeses, lard, or butter. In the 
provision department some hams which I had suspected 
of being slightly tainted had disappeared. The fresh food 
remained untouched. Every room, every floor and parti- 


176 WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 

tion was honeycombed with holes. Harridge’s was being 
carefully watched. 

This experience made me all the more anxious to get 
away from London. 

The barrow was very heavy when I had loaded it up, and 
I still had to go back to Motcombe Street to collect the 
things I had left in the car. As it was getting late I decided 
that I would only go as far as Richmond that night. I 
would sleep there, and then push on into Surrey the next 
day. 

I tried at several other places to get candles, but they 
had all disappeared. 

By the time I had had a meal and was ready to start it 
was sundown. I hesitated as to whether I would try and 
endure one more night in my Motcombe Street rooms, but 
my first resolution was fortified by the discovery that all 
the candles I had taken home the previous day had also 
disappeared. I could have a fire, but otherwise the evening 
would have to be spent in darkness. 

I added the final touches to my strange outfit and started 
off down the Marylebone Road. I decided to walk to 
Hammersmith, go across Barnes Bridge, and so on to 
Richmond that way. I reckoned on a good two hours’ 
walk. But in doing so I had not allowed for inevitable 
rests. For the first few hundred yards the barrow load 
did not seem unduly heavy, but by the time I had reached 
Hyde Park I felt as though I were pushing a railway truck 
laden with coal. I was panting and puffing, and my hands 
were chafed and my back ached. I took a good rest and 
started again. All along the side of the Park as far as 
Notting Hill I had to rest every dozen yards or so. When 
I reached Shepherd’s Bush I felt doubtful whether I could 
proceed. I was quite done up, and it was already getting 
dark. I rested disconsolately on the edge of the barrow. 
Whilst doing so, my eye caught sight of a rather gaudy 
public-house. I had never in my life entered one of these 


WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 177 

places, but it flashed through my mind that here was an 
occasion when the most fastidious could hardly grieve at 
my defection. I entered the saloon bar. There was no 
lack of every conceivable alcoholic refreshment, I drank a 
wineglassful of neat brandy, and added the bottle to my 
effects. At the same time I discarded some of my tinned 
food in order to lighten the load. The effect of the brandy 
temporarily ameliorated the outlook, but I was very weary 
and feverishly anxious to get on. I had an impatient 
desire to get to the other side of the river. I felt I would 
rather sleep in the open in Richmond Park, or on Barnes 
Common, than endure another night in any of these 
unlighted and cheerless houses. Moreover, I tried several 
times to dissuade myself from accepting a conscious realiza¬ 
tion—things already moving and scurrying in the fringes 
of the coming darkness ! 

As I struggled on painfully towards Plammersmith 
Broadway I became gradually obsessed by a terrifying 
conviction. I was being watched! A dark power was 
encircling me, and when the moment came, I—I could 
not tell what would happen, but I knew that I should 
no longer be master of my fate. I kept to the middle of 
the road and prayed for strength. Just past the Broadway 
a swarm of black objects swung in a body across my 
barrow from left to right. A minute later another swarm 
swung across from right to left. I looked back, and I 
became aware of a vast semi-circle of black movement 
following me. 

Before I had reached Barnes Bridge, I knew that I could 
not go on. In any case, I could not go on with my load. 

I would discard my barrow and run for it, chancing to find 
on the other side of the river the necessities I needed. Per¬ 
haps on the morrow I could return and reclaim my property 
in daylight. I left the barrow and strode forward swinging 
a stick. It was less than a hundred yards to the bridge, 
but before I had reached it I knew that I was defeated. A 


178 WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 


pale moon was up and I could see sufficient. It was not 
so much numbers that paralysed my will to go on, as the 
sense that at the back of them was an ordered plan, a 
sinister intelligence. I'm afraid I gave way to a moment 
of self-pity. I saw myself, the conscientious and scrupulous 
sub-manager of the Southrepps Bank, a pitiable figure, 
struggling to do his duty, and to behave as became a 
Christian gentleman, and then—hemmed in and mastered 
by a dark, unjust fate. 

As I stood by the bridge, uncertain how to act, I was 
suddenly startled by a new amazement. Creeping along 
the near bank was a small tramp steamer or freighter. 
It was moving. There was smoke coming out of the funnel. 
I could almost swear that I could see the figure of a man 
at the wheel. Then, as I peered more eagerly, I was 
certain that, though there might be a man at the wheel, 
the deck of the steamer was swarming with that same 
dark restless movement. At the top of my voice I yelled 
out: 

" Hullo ! Hullo ! there ! Who’s that ? Land, I say, 
for God’s sake 1 ” 

The steamer crept under the bridge and appeared the 
other side. I rushed to it and screamed out again : 

“ Hullo ! Hullo ! I say. Is that a man ? For God’s 
sake, land ! ” 

I waited. There was a noise of squeaking and the rushing 
of water. As the steamer began to crawl out of sight, I 
could swear I heard a husky answer : 

“ I can’t. They won’t let me!” 

I groaned and cried out again, but no further answer 
came back. 

Then, indeed, was I becoming desperate. Why did the 
creatures not attack me and make an end ? I was utterly 
at their mercy. For a moment I hesitated whether I 
would not rush on to the Bridge and throw myself into the 


WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 179 

river, but the idea of suicide has always appeared to me 
to be of all crimes, next to murder, the most irreligious. 
No, I would fight to the end. 

I walked back to my barrow, my consciousness almost 
numbed into indifference. So absorbed was I with my 
spiritual tribulations that I hardly heeded the movements 
of my black masters. I stood by the barrow hesitating, 
and then the strangest thing of all happened. I became 
aware of concentric movements, of swerves and formations, 
like an army at manoeuvres. 

“ Now/' I thought, “ it’s coming. Well, let it be 
quick- ” 

I was in the middle of the road, and I could see fairly 
well. I waited patiently, stick in hand. The manoeuvres 
seemed suddenly to a stop, as though the Generalissimo 
had achieved a perfect formation. Then two bodies 
detached themselves and took up positions on either side 
of me. I could even see their leaders gleaming menacingly 
on the flanks. And then a third smaller body approached 
between them. It was apparently conveying a large dark 
object. The whole cavalcade appeared to be closing in 
on me, and then it suddenly retreated, leaving the dark 
object at my feet. 

I peered down. It was a large brown rat, a very prince 
of rats, an enormous fellow. He was wounded in the right 
leg, whether through fighting or through falling on a sharp 
object I could not say. The command was obvious. I 
was being watched by ten thousand specks of light. 

I praised God for the thoroughness of my preparations 
before leaving Harridge’s. I had a first-aid outfit, and 
during the war I had picked up a little knowledge of the 
valuable craft. I took the things from the barrow, being 
careful to show no signs of hurry or suspicion. Then I 
knelt down and bathed the wound, which was bleeding, 
applied some antiseptic, and bound it up with a clean 


180 WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 


bandage. I did it as well as I possibly could. The brown 
rat never stirred. As a brilliant afterthought I smeared a 
little brandy over his nose. I could not be sure how this 
would affect him, but I thought the experiment might be 
worth while. Then I drew apart and waited, to show that 
the operation was over. Followed a lot of squeaking and 
whispering, the movement of further formations, and the 
removal of the invalid. Nonchalantly I strolled off down 
the street back to Hammersmith. I went unmolested, 
nevertheless, the sense of depression became accentuated. 
Before I was in open warfare ; now I felt that I was a slave. 
If I was useful to them they would neither kill me nor let 
me go; 

Strolling back towards Kensington the truth of the whole 
situation began to dawn on me. The voice on the telephone, 
the black cat, the man on the steamer, myself—Humanity 
was not defunct. It had simply been superseded. The 
earth was now dominated by the rat. Man was a subsidiary 
and servile creature. A few human beings would be 
allowed to live, provided they served some useful purpose 
in the rodentary scheme of things. 

In Kensington I found a large private hotel. I was tired, 
dazed, and beaten. I stumbled in and found my way to a 
room on the top floor. I struck matches, and satisfied 
myself that there were no holes in the floor or walls. Then I 
threw myself on to the bed and fell into a heavy sleep. 

It was, of course, only to wake later to the abrupt 
irritation of that gnaw, gnaw, gnaw in the skirting. 

“ I shall go mad ! ” I whispered. Then : 

“ William, if ever there was a time to pull yourself 
together it is now. What is to prevent you walking out 
of London to-morrow morning ? They don't come out in 
daylight. Get right away into the clean, sweet air of the 
country, and leave everything. Better to die of starvation 
or exposure than endure this. Besides, who knows but 
that you may find a colony of humans somewhere ? " 


WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 181 

The gnawing went on, but I slept by fits and starts. My 
fears were somehow less directly personal. I felt that my 
services to the old brown rat would in some way secure 
me from immediate attack. Once during the night I know 
that a rat scuttled across the bed. I had no candles, and 
I was too weary to protest. What would be the good ? 
If I went to another room they would quickly make their 
way thither. I tried to visualize London a hundred years 
hence, a mouldy ruin entirely perforated, like an old leaf 
that has been pressed between the leaves of a book and 
forgotten. It seemed surprising that it was less than forty- 
eight hours ago that I had been in this metamorphosed 
existence, and it already held me in an ice-cold grip of 
fatality. If I could consider the matter logically and 
dispassionately I might be able to persuade myself that I 
was despairing too rapidly, surrendering too easily. But 
I was enveloped by an atmosphere in which logic seemed 
to have no place, reason no throne. A few days and nights 
of this and I should be an old man. 

The dawn at last. I rose hastily and began to dress. I 
had not completed my toilette before I was confronted 
with a new disaster. The soles of my boots had been eaten / 
There was again in this the menace of deliberate purpose. 
There could have been no reason to have eaten my boots 
for the nourishment they contained. London was chock- 
full of food. I wandered over the hotel. I found five 
pairs of gentlemen’s boots. In each case the soles had been 
destroyed. On the other hand, I found seven pairs of 
ladies’ shoes. They were untouched. Why ? 

So soon as I had consumed a hasty meal I hurried out 
into the street in my socks. After a brief search I found 
a bootmaker’s shop. One glance satisfied me. All the 
boxes had been pulled down and eaten into, and the soles 
of the boots destroyed. Even some ladies’ boots of the 
larger kind were destroyed; but there were plenty of 
the latter with Louis heels and useless pointed toes. The 


182 WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 


thing was diabolic. Could I walk out of London in my 
socks ? In any case I would try. It was my only hope. 
I bound my feet up in thick bandages, after covering 
them with vaseline. On the top of this I wore two pairs 
of thick socks. 

This time I would go North, where there was no river to 
cross. I made up a small parcel of food and a change of 
clothing, and set forth. I will not distress you with a 
description of that journey. It was a dull record of pain, 
weariness, and mental anguish. I lost all sense of time or 
space. Sometimes I would rest on a doorstep and nibble 
at my food. A curious conviction came over me that I 
was instinctively imitating the rats’ method of eating. 
It was again nearly dark before I found that the houses 
were getting more widely separated, and there were occa¬ 
sional lapses of fields and open spaces. Even then—there 
would be many miles to go before I was clear of it all. 

I had nearly reached the end of my tether, and was 
passing a red-brick wall that might have been the outside 
wall of some institution, when suddenly I thought I heard 
the sound of a cry on the other side of the wall—a human 
cry! With a superhuman effort I leapt at the wall and 
scrambled to the top. Just on the other side I beheld a 
woman. She was kneeling down and collecting something 
from the ground. In the most futile and inane fashion 
I called out: 

“ Hullo ! Good-evening ! ” 

She turned her face to me. It was the saddest face I 
have ever seen. At the sight of me it expressed neither 
relief nor pleasure. It simply looked utterly hopeless and 
scared. I said: 

“ Who are you ? Will you come with me ? Let us 
escape-” 

She looked round with a terrified glance, and muttered : 

“ No, no, no.” 

" Why not ? ” 


WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 183 

“ They won’t let me.” 

“ Who won’t ? ” 

“ The Masters.” 

And then with a groan she ran across the courtyard, and 
darted through a gate which she slammed after her. 

Then I knew that all was finished. I was a creature in 
revolt. I gripped my stick. I would not avoid rats any 
longer. I would seek them out. I would attack, and die 
fighting for what I represented. 

I stumbled on to the next house I came to, a bleak buff- 
brick villa. I stamped into the hall and cried out: 

“ Come on, you devils ! ” 

A new strength seemed to enter my limbs. I went into 
a dark room and struck at the floor and walls with my 
stick. But as the strength came so it oozed away. Some¬ 
thing unaccountable was happening to me. I fell on to a 
couch and groaned. I seemed to be rushing through 
space, through a noisy channel. At the other end sounds 
detached themselves. I distinctly heard a voice say : 

Hullo, old man, that’s better ! ” 

There was an interval, and then the same voice said: 

” Hullo, William, old man, you’re all right now, eh ? 
You understand ? You’re all right.” 

The voice was strikingly familiar. Tom—of course, 
Tom Stokes. What was he doing in this God-forsaken 
place ? What place ? Where was I ? 

“You remember it all now, old man, don’t you ? We 
were having a jolly talk about Bernard Shaw and Dean 
Inge-” 

Dean Inge ! The gloomy Dean, they called him. Some¬ 
thing shaped and cleared. I remembered a lot of things. 

“ I’ll never forgive myself, old man. We were talking 
—a jolly talk about what could happen to humanity. 
You leant over the fireplace, knocking out your pipe. 
I reached up to get a spill, and, like the clumsy ass I am. 



184 WILLIAM’S NARROW SQUEAK 


I knocked that big vase right over. It fell on to your 
head. They’ve had to put in a couple of stitches. You’re 
all right now, old man, eh ? ” 

More familiar than Tom’s voice—the cosy security of my 
own room. More dear to me than Tom’s face—the eyes 
of my wife welcoming me back. Queer, that all that part 
of my life had been forgotten, that I should have jumped 
back to the time when I was a sub-manager at a small bank. 
Queer- 

“ What could happen to humanity ? The gloomy Dean, 

the gloomy Dean. Yes-” 

Yes, I remembered it all. 

Thank God! 



WHAT WAS SHE TO THINK? 

Muriel Upwey was surely as perfect a wife as man could 
desire. She was young, pretty and docile. She had about 
her that air of helpless dependence which all men sneakingly 
value above all womanly virtues. Her husband, Sam, 
owned a timber works just outside Tibbelsford. He was 
a bearded man, considerably her senior, and of a stern and 
upright character. He left home at nine o'clock every 
morning and returned at six in the evening. His slippers 
and his pipe, and his supper were always ready for him, 
and during the evening Muriel would sit in rapt adoration 
whilst he talked about timber and religion. For he was 
a very religious man. They went to church twice every 
Sunday, and every evening he read out aloud a chapter of 
the Bible before going to bed. He did not read very well, 
having some defect in the cavity of his mouth, which 
caused him to whistle some words and mumble others, but 
Muriel sat enchanted. The next day she would call on 
some friend and talk about timber, and lay great stress on 
how the world needed religion, and what a noble and fine 
character was her husband. The themes might possibly 
have bored the neighbours except that Tibbelsford is 
rather a dull town, and a chat with any one is always 
welcome. Besides, one is not bound to pay too much 
attention. One can lie in wait, and at the first opportunity 
pounce upon the situation and tell about what an exciting 
affair it was at the Poulteney Jones’ lantern lecture on 
Belgian churches, or dilate upon that new face cream that 
Laura was recommended by the wife of a man who came 
to make an estimate for re-papering the drawing-room. 

N 185 


186 WHAT WAS SHE TO THINK? 


Fair’s fair. Even timber has its limitations of interest. 
Even the Bible you can have too much of. There are 
other men in the world besides Sam Upwey. Nevertheless, 
Muriel was very much liked, as the helpless and yielding 
always are. Does it not say somewhere, “ Blessed are the 
meek, for they shall inherit the earth ? ” 

Sometimes she would visit the timber works and stare 
reverently at the great piles of timber, and listen to the saw 
mills at work. They make a lovely screaming whirr with a 
jolly plonk at the end which meant that more wood was 
sawn up. It was a grateful and satisfying sound—things 
being done, needs being supplied, Sam being enriched. And 
at night she would dream of timber and of great forests with 
wolves darting about amongst the trees. And she would 
be frightened, and then Sam would appear, and would 
look so strong and his beard look so fierce that all the wolves 
would run away, and she would feel frightened no longer. 
Indeed, so impressive would he be that she would not like 
even to mention the wolves. He would roll up his sleeves 
and say: “ Watch me. I am going to chop down all 
these trees, all the trees in the world. You must under¬ 
stand, my dear, that throughout all time wood has always 
been the greatest friend to man. It has protected him, 
warmed him, and adorned his habitations.” 

And lo ! the forest would suddenly turn into vast stacks 
of timber and saw mills, and she would wake up. Sam 
would sometimes search the Scriptures with a rather 
resentful expression on his face because he could find no 
reference to the fact of the Lord having made wood. He 
made light, and fire, and water, and all these other things, 
then why not wood, which was a much kindlier element ? 

He was also something of a politician, and strangely 
enough for one so orthodox he was inclined to express 
extremely liberal views. He was indeed almost a Socialist. 
It was only when it came to the paying of his own work¬ 
people that he hedged a little in principle. The consequence 


187 


WHAT WAS SHE TO THINK? 

was that Muriel read the leading articles in the liberal 
newspapers, and at Mrs. Wain wright’s she would talk quite 
passionately about the iniquities of the unequal distribution 
of wealth, and the virtues of Trades-unionism, and the 
blessings of Free Trade. 

When they had been married three years Muriel presented 
her husband with a son. Needless to say the delight of 
both parents was unbounded. They would sit and talk 
by the hour about the small person’s future. They dis¬ 
cussed his food and training and education, and decided 
that he should be called Hector Samuel, and that he should 
go into the timber trade, and become a good churchman 
and a liberal. Alas! for some of these best laid plans. 
When the child was only six years old Samuel Upwey died. 
He died quite nicely, from heart failure during an attack 
of pneumonia. Muriel was terribly upset. It was said 
at all the tea-tables in Tibbelsford that had it not been for 
the child she would have died from grief. She wore the 
deepest mourning just like women do on the Continent. 
She shut herself up, and read the Bible. She went nowhere 
except to church. She wrapped her life round Master 
Hector Samuel. The timber works were sold to a company, 
and out of the proceeds she derived a small but sufficient 
income to live in comfort. Friends called on her and 
offered what consolation they could, but she was inconsol¬ 
able. She had several enlargements made of her late 
husband’s photograph, and also of the timber yard. These 
she framed, and they were hung in conspicuous places all 
over the house. She would sit and gaze at them, and she 
would tell Hector Samuel what a great and good man his 
father had been, and how it must be the ambition of his 
life to live up to that noble example. And as he grew 
older she told him all about wood, what a great friend 
wood had always been to man, and what an important part 
timber had played in all our lives. And she Instilled into 
him the value of religion, and explained about the unfair 


188 WHAT WAS SHE TO THINK? 


distribution of wealth, and what splendid institutions 
were Free Trade and Trades-unionism. And Hector 
Samuel said : “ Yes, mamma.” 

He was just a healthy, rather ordinary little boy, but in 
the eyes of Muriel he was the most wonderful thing that 
ever lived, and we have no right to laugh at her for 
thinking so. 

It is as it should be. 

When he was twelve years old, she sent him to a public 
school. The parting with him was a perfect nightmare. 
She could see no virtue in sending a boy to a public school, 
but she remembered that Samuel had expressed the opinion 
that it was good for a boy, and he had intended sending 
Hector. He was four years at Beestoke College, and Muriel 
simply lived for the holidays. She kept a calendar and 
ticked off the days. She wrote to him every other day, 
and always sent him little presents and sums of money. 
For the rest she lived the life almost of a recluse. Occasion¬ 
ally she would visit Mrs. Wainwright or some other lady 
friend, but when she did so she appeared preoccupied and 
uninterested. She held the same opinions that she had 
held when Sam was alive, but they were lacking in force 
or enthusiasm. She could think and talk of nothing but 
Hector Samuel. She was getting thin, and her friends 
predicted that she would go into a decline. So ill did she 
appear one summer that Mrs. Wainwright persuaded her 
to consult a doctor. As she said : ” Remember, my dear, 
you haven’t only yourself to consider. What would happen 
to Hector if you—er—you understand my meaning—? ” 

And Muriel understood. She called in Doctor Anscombe, 
a genial, middle-aged man, who wore an imperial and a 
Harris tweed suit, and drove about the country in a dog¬ 
cart, played golf, and belonged to the Tibbelsford Consti¬ 
tutional Club. After examining her he said : 

“ There’s nothing much the matter with you. You want 
feeding up, and you ought to play golf.” 


WHAT WAS SHE TO THINK? 


189 


And a tear came into Muriel’s eye. Golf ! There was 
something a little shocking about the suggestion. Golf 
and Samuel! Oh, dear no, this man didn’t understand 
her. She said: 

“ I don’t think I’d like to do that.” 

He laughed and said: “ Well, that’s my prescription. 
But if you like, I’ll give you a tonic as well, But, my dear 
lady, do get out in the air as much as possible.” 

She thanked him and took the tonic. When he called a 
few days later, she was certainly looking a little better. 
She had been out for one or two walks. In a curious way 
the doctor himself seemed to be a tonic. She liked his 
breezy manner of speech, the smell of Harris tweed, the 
something vital and hopeful about him. 

As the summer wore on, and she got stronger, she looked 
forward to his visits. He did her good. And he always 
said something that was amusing and entertaining. She 
showed him the photographs of Samuel and of Hector and 
he seemed interested. By the end of July she was quite 
well again, and she would probably have lost touch with 
the doctor altogether, had it not been for the fact that two 
days after Hector came home for the holidays he developed 
German measles, and Doctor Anscombe attended him. 
He came every day for a week, and was very attentive and 
sympathetic. 

And one day Muriel found him looking at her. Now 
there are all kinds of ways of one person looking at another. 
But there is one kind of way that means only one thing. 
And Muriel understood. When he had gone she looked at 
herself in the mirror with an expression, half troubled, 
half elated. She was now thirty-four, and her large 
wondering eyes beheld a face by no means unbeautiful. 
She turned away and as though appealing for succour she 
gazed at the enlargement of Sam’s photograph. Poor 
Sam ! how good he was ! how noble and helpful, just like 
the noble and helpful wood that he devoted his life to. 


190 WHAT WAS SHE TO THINK? 


She visited Hector, who was getting better, and suffi¬ 
ciently amenable to concede the fact that the doctor was 
“ a decent sort.” Hector got quite well, but the doctor 
still continued to come. And one day he insisted on 
taking her out for a drive in his dog-cart. He drove well, 
and he looked quite handsome, sitting bolt upright, and 
making funny little clicking noises at the mare. He 
told her a lot of interesting things about trees, and birds, 
and plants, and people. Muriel was very impressed. On 
only one point did she feel perturbed. She happened to 
ask him what church he attended, and he laughed and said: 

“ The last time I went to church was when I got christ¬ 
ened. I propose to go twice more.” 

Muriel, puzzled, said : “ When ? ” 

“ When I get married, and when I get buried.” 

What an odd man ! It is difficult to discuss religion in 
a dog-cart, but she did ask him his views, and in his rich 
burr of a voice, he shouted into the wind surprising and 
shocking theories. He always got back to trees, and 
birds, and plants, and people. And Muriel found herself 
only partially listening to him. She was fascinated by his 
voice, and by the firm lines of his nose and chin, and the 
brown eyes which seemed to register the movements of 
the mare, and yet to be absorbing all the living phenomena 
of the countryside. There was danger here. It seemed 
dangerous sitting up in the high dog-cart, alongside this 
dangerous man with his dangerous theories. So dangerous 
that she invited him home to tea, an invitation which he 
readily accepted. 

When Hector Samuel went back to school she did a 
surprising thing. She failed to appear at church the 
following Sunday at either morning or evening service. 

This defection so alarmed little Miss Wainwright that 
she called on her the next afternoon. Muriel appeared 
curiously evasive about it. No, she had not been ill. She 
just thought she wouldn’t go. She quickly changed the 


WHAT WAS SHE TO THINK? 


191 


subject. She talked about trees and birds and about the 
genius of Hector Samuel. 

And as the weeks and months passed, Miss Wainwright 
detected more and more surprises in her friend. One 
afternoon she called and began to talk about what iniquitous 
institutions Trades-unions were. Miss Wainwright said: 

“ But, my dear, you’ve always been a keen believer in 
Trades-unions.” 

Muriel stared at her, open-eyed and wonderful. She 
didn’t seem to remember, or if she did—well, it was as 
clear as daylight now that Trades-unions were an evil. 
What the country needed was a strong Conservative 
Government, with benevolent ideals. 

A few days later, Miss Wainwright found her taking 
down several of the enlargements of Sam’s photograph. 
Then she began to get suspicious. The suspicions reached 
their climax when she heard from a reliable source that Mrs. 
Upwey had been seen on the golf-links having lessons from 
Dr. Anscombe ! Golf ! It was the beginning of the end. 

Actually it was another six months before she married 
the doctor. They chose the beginning of the summer term 
when Hector Samuel had just gone back to school. After 
the first shock the boy had taken it very well, and he and 
the doctor got on splendidly. She gave up her house, and 
the enlargements of Samuel and the timber yard were 
buried in a lumber-room at the doctor’s. She was a loving 
and devoted wife. She looked after his house, saw to it 
that his consulting-room was always warm and tidy. 
When he was called up in the night, she would have hot 
tea ready for him on his return. She learnt to play golf, 
and she even read The Lancet. She took an absorbing 
interest in his work. At Miss Wainwright’s she would 
hold forth on the wonders and miracles of medical science, 
and explain how her dear John was probably the cleverest 
doctor in the world, and one of the noblest men who ever 
lived. Once her friend said to her : 


192 WHAT WAS SHE TO THINK? 


“ When are you coming to church again, Muriel ? ” 

“ I shall only go once move,” she said. 

“ When do you mean ? ” 

“ When I am buried." 

This heathen confession nearly lost her a friendship. 
She hastened to add that she had nothing against the 
church, but that she believed one could be just as good and 
religious without going. And she talked about trees and 
birds and plants and people till she was well out of her 
depth. 

Her devotion to her husband was only equalled by her 
adoration of her son. She still ticked off the days from 
the calendar against his return. Her only dread in life 
was that her two beloved idols might not get on with each 
other. But the first holidays reassured her. Hector 
Samuel was developing into a healthy, sensible boy. He 
accepted the intrusion of a step-father gracefully. They did 
not see a great deal of each other, as the doctor was very 
busy at that time and frequently did not get back from his 
rounds till late. But when he had time to spare for the 
boy they talked animatedly about cricket and school life. 
And Muriel listened absorbedly, her eyes glowing with 
pride and satisfaction. The darlings ! They would grow 
fond of each other. She was surrounded by love ; love, 
and cleverness, and beauty. Oh, how clever John was, 
and how clever Hector was becoming. He could even talk 
about chemistry and motor cars. He knew all about the 
best makes, and she was able to say one day at a tea-party 
at Mrs. Altringham’s: 

“ Oh, but you know, my dear, the Rolio is easily the best 
motor bicycle on the market." 

And Mrs. Altringham was duly impressed. 

It was at about this time that Dr. Anscombe became an 
ardent tariff reformer. He joined the local tariff reform 
league, and Muriel went to lectures and studied all the 
papers in favour of this measure. And she went about 


WHAT WAS SHE TO THINK? 


193 


telling everyone that “ we shall never have prosperity in 
this country with this wretched Free-trade Government. 
What we have got to do is to make the foreigner 
pay.” 

Apart from his extensive practice, Dr. Anscombe had 
a small private income. And so they were comparatively 
well off. It was decided that when he had finished school 
Hector should be sent up to Cambridge. Muriel sighed 
when this decision was arrived at. She had been looking 
forward to Hector leaving school. John was out so much. 
She had visualized the day when she had both her men 
to herself. Then Hector would always be about the house, 
and she could administer to him. And they would go 
for walks together, and she would be able to say: “ This 
is my son.” 

It was Hector himself who threw out hints about Cam¬ 
bridge. Some of his colleagues were going up. And it 
was John who championed the idea. He had been at 
Cambridge himself, and he would like the boy to have every 
opportunity. It was unlikely that they would ever have 
children of their own. What could she do against this 
united wish ? What could she say when both her men 
joined forces ? She meekly accepted the situation. It 
meant another three years partial separation, and what 
then ? 

Hector was only two years at Cambridge, however. 
He developed an extraordinary craze for drawing and 
painting. He wanted to go in for art. Now people go to 
Cambridge for all kinds of things, but they don’t go there 
to study art. The boy was clamouring for Paris, whither 
a friend of his had gone. Paris ! but what an alarming 
and dangerous suggestion ! She fluttered around Tibbels- 
ford trying to discover if there weren’t some fount of 
artistic training to be had there. The search was not 
very satisfactory. There certainly was a middle-aged 
lady who taught flower-painting to a class of little girls, 


194 WHAT WAS SHE TO THINK? 


but even she had not the audacity to suggest this would 
be good enough for Hector. John considered the matter 
carefully over many pipes, and in the end he enunciated : 

“ Well, I don’t know much about art. I shouldn’t 
think it means an easy career. But everyone has to follow 
their own bent. If the boy wants to become an artist, 
and Paris is the only place he can learn in, he had better 
go there. I shan’t stand in his way.” 

And next day, with tears in her voice, Muriel explained 
to Mrs. Wainwright: 

“You see, dear, everyone has to follow their own bent. 
Hector is crazy to become an artist, and Paris is the only 
place he can learn it in. Oh, dear ! how long do you think 
it takes to learn ? ” 

Mrs. Wainwright was of opinion that it would take at 
least two years to learn, and then she added brightly: 

“ Oh, but perhaps your Hector, being so quick and 
clever, won’t take so long.” 

And so at the end of the term Hector left Cambridge 
and went over to Mont Parnasse. He joined an art school, 
grew the inevitable beard, and led the conventional life 
of the Quarter. Every three months he came home for 
a short holiday, and those were golden but anxious days 
for Muriel. Had he changed ? What kind of life was he 
leading ? Were his friends nice people ? Would he be 
quickly through his career and be made a Royal Academi¬ 
cian, and have a large studio in Tibbelsford, and just go 
up to town for varnishing days ? 

Hector Samuel was, if anything, a little more manly 
in his appearance on his first return ; a little more inde¬ 
pendent, and restless, and anxious to show his knowledge 
of the world. After he had returned Muriel was able to 
say to some ladies at a flower show : 

“ Isn’t it strange that there have been no great English 
painters since Sir Joshua Reynolds, or was it Gainsborough ? 
—you know, the man who painted those lovely hats ? 


WHAT WAS SHE TO THINK? 


195 


They say that there are even now a lot of great French 
painters, only they do it in a different way. Wouldn’t it 
be wonderful if Hector became the one great English 
painter ! That is why he is living in Paris, you know.” 

And she bought books on art, and read the lives of the 
painters. She found it all very difficult to understand, 
and between the pages would constantly occur the vision 
of Hector, in a velvet suit, with a wreath of laurels round 
his head, receiving the aristocracy at the top of the staircase 
at the Royal Academy. When next in town she went to 
the National Gallery. She gazed awestruck at the numerous 
masterpieces, but when she left she could not remember 
Murillo as distinct from Rembrandt. 

Whether Hector Samuel was quicker and cleverer than 
other boys was a point we need not discuss. He spent 
three years in Paris and at the end of that time he was by 
no means an artist—except in the eyes of Muriel. But 
perhaps it takes a little longer ? On the other hand he 
certainly had made considerable progress. He gave the 
promise of being a fair average portrait painter. It was 
quite possible that he would end by not being a painter 
at all. He had various interests and points of view, some 
of which were a little alarming. Oh, why did everything 
and everybody alter and change ! Muriel wanted to hold 
everything dear to her tight. She wanted to make it 
static, but she found it flowing past her. When he returned 
from Paris nothing would do but that he must take a studio 
in London—in Chelsea. 

“You see, mother,” he explained, waving aside her 
protests, " nobody could possibly paint in Tibbelsford. 
It would be like trying to paint in a coffin. Besides, I’ll 
always be popping down for the week-end.” 

On one of these occasions Hector brought down a friend 
with him, a fellow student. And it was during this visit 
that Muriel received a mental shock from which she was 
destined never entirely to recover. It was Saturday night, 


196 WHAT WAS SHE TO THINK? 


and directly after dinner the doctor had had to go out. 
She left the two young men sitting over their claret, talking 
and smoking. Hector was very fond of talking. 

She wanted him to herself, and as they seemed a long 
time, she tiptoed back to the dining-room. The door was 
slightly ajar. She heard a voice talking excitedly. It was 
Hector’s. And this is what she overheard : 

" Not at all, not at all! What I say is it’s largely a 
question of environment. Now you take the case of my 
step-father. He’s quite a decent old chap. I’m fond of 
him, but he’s a cabbage. He knows nothing. He doesn’t 
even bother to keep up to date with his job. He doesn’t 
believe in the Bible, but he believes what the syndicated 
press tells him. He even believes in tariff reform. Tariff 
reform ! I ask you. He’s got the makings of an intelli¬ 
gent man, but he’s a kind of Dodo-” 

Oh, Hector! Muriel hurried away. She went back 
quietly into the drawing-room and shut the door. She 
walked across to the window in the recess and opened it 
wider. It was a warm spring night. The air was charged 
with the odour of spring flowers. There was no moon, 
but the sky was light with the magic of clustering stars. 
Her breath came in little stabs. Everything was moving 
and changing and she wanted to keep it still. Oh, why had 
Hector said that ? And yet he had not spoken unkindly. 

" Quite a decent chap. I’m fond of him.” Thank you 
for that, Hector. He loved her, and John loved her. All 
around was love ; love, and beauty, and truth. Truth ? . . 

. . . What were the stars signalling to each other ? Were 
they laughing at her ? Ah, no, they couldn’t do that, 
because her heart was simple, and she only wanted love 
and beauty, and truth. Such little things, such big things ; 
everything and nothing. A tear came into her eye, and 
comforted her. It was not that. Love she had, love all 
around her. Was that not the greatest thing of all ? It 
was only that ... Oh, dear! Oh, dear ! In the days to 
come what was she to think l 



ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 


I 

“ That’s all very well,” said Mr. William Egger. And after 
a pause he repeated : “ That’s all very well.” 

In his shirt sleeves, carpet slippers, and embroidered 
skull-cap, he shuffled restlessly from the breakfast-table to 
the window, in the sitting-room above his general shop. 
His wife began to clear away, with the obvious suggestion 
that it was her place to make herself scarce. This was a 
father’s duty. The boy stood sheepishly staring out of 
the window. The day was going to be scorching. 

Of course it was his duty. It was always a father’s duty. 
He must be firm, admonishing, a little forensic. And all 
these things came a little difficult to William. He was no 
orator. It was too early in the morning. He had break¬ 
fasted well, and at the back of his mind lurked the old hint 
of palliation : “ Boys will be boys.” He cleared his throat 
and rumbled: 

“You say pinching apples isn’t stealing. You’re wrong. 
Anything you do becomes a habit. This is the second time 
Farmer James has written to complain. That doesn’t 
mean that it’s only twice you’ve stolen his apples. It 
means it’s only twice you’ve been found out.” 

“ I swear it’s only twice,” said Tom, sulkily. 

“That’ll do. Don’t answer me back. You acknowledge 
you stole them. Well, what does it mean? You took 
what didn’t belong to yer. It’s sinful. You steal apples, 
and it becomes a habit. Perhaps to-morrow you steal 
pears, then peaches, then grapes-” 

“I’ve never stolen no grapes ! ” 

197 


198 ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 


“ Be quiet, will yer ! It’s just a question of—one thing 
leading to another. The downward path, the slippery 
slope, the—er—Gadarene swine, and so on. If you take 
these things p’r'aps one day you’ll pinch a little money out 
of the till—my till!—p’r’aps someone else’s penknife, 
umbreller, or whatnot. That’s not the end. You’re 
slipping down. Stealing leads to other things—weakness, 
giving way all the time. In the end, drinking, forgery, 
goin’ to the pictures, all the deadly sins-” 

Mrs. Egger had re-entered the room with a brush and 
crumb-tray and she exclaimed : 

“ Tom’s a very bad boy, William. But you needn’t drag 
in all the deadly sins. One doesn’t need to go to hell for 
pinchin’ a few apples.” 

William showed annoyance. Just like Agnes—to put 
him on to the job and then interfere. 

<f I tell yer—one thing leads to another,” he barked. 

“ Yes, but-” 

“ There’s no ‘ but ’ about it. Sin is sin, and once on 
the slippery path, down yer go.” 

“ It’s not so bad as all that,” replied Mrs. Egger, quickly. 

" What I ses is—it’s not nice it getting about, us with the 
shop and that-” 

" Oh ! . . . ugh ! ” 

The whole matter might have petered out at that point, 
but for the fact that, in the disturbance caused by Farmer 
James’s letter, Mrs. Egger had left the bacon-dish on the 
sideboard. On the bacon-dish were several rinds from their 
breakfast. Ambling between the window and the side¬ 
board, Mr. Egger’s attention had been divided between 
this dish and a company of fowls in the yard below. The 
situation was a little too embarrassing to glance at his son. 
When his wife stood up in defence of the young man he 
pretended to be annoyed, but he was really relieved. He 
had landed into this tirade of abuse and admonition, and 
didn’t see quite how to end gracefully. In a moment of 



ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 199 


distraction he picked up one of the bacon-rinds and flung 
it out to the fowls. 

For the purposes of this story it is necessary to drop the 
curtain on this domestic scene for the moment and follow 
the adventures of the bacon-rind. 

The fowls were white leghorns, and from their appearance 
they fared sumptuously. Doubtless a small general shop 
is a liberal found for scraps, apart from the supply of grain 
which their kind demands. But there is something about 
a bacon-rind that is irresistible to nearly all living creatures. 
Dogs will fight to the death for it, cats desert their kittens, 
birds and poultry perform prodigious acts in the way of 
running, doubling, and ducking. The bacon-rind is never 
safe until safely ensconced in the maw of some hungry 
champion. 

On this occasion three hens rushed at the bacon-rind, 
and one, a little longer in the legs than the others, got 
possession. She scampered towards the hedge, followed 
by seven others, clucking and screaming. Before the hedge 
was reached the rind had changed hands—beaks, rather— 
—three times. The original bird had regained possession 
and was about to force her way through a gap, when the 
cock flew from a savoury refuse heap and savagely pecked 
her neck. Scandalous that a female should be allowed to 
enjoy this essentially masculine luxury ! There was a 
rough-and-tumble in the hedge, and the cock got possession. 
But do not think that he was allowed to enjoy his triumph 
in peace. The fight was by no means over. So great is the 
appeal of bacon-rind that the weak will attack the strong, 
wives will turn on their husbands, the desperate will 
perform feats of valour which no other incentive could 
stir them to. 

The cock half-flew, half-ran, across the angle of the 
adjoining field, followed by five of his screaming females. 
He knew a thing or two, and doubled under an alder-bush 


200 ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 


and entered a narrow coppice that ran alongside the road. 
But when he arrived there three of the hens were still on 
his track. 

Now it is one thing to capture a piece of bacon-rind, 
but quite another thing to swallow it. The latter operation 
requires several uninterrupted seconds, with the head 
thrown back. Even at the last moment a rival may seize 
the end projecting and a fierce tug-of-war take place. And 
that happened in this case. He ran and ran and ran. 
He had no recollection afterwards how far he had run, but 
at last he seemed to have outdistanced his pursuers. There 
was a moment’s respite somewhere by the side of someone’s 
kitchen-garden. He threw back his head, closed his eyes, 
and began to gulp the succulent morsel inch by inch. Oh, 
the ecstasy of that oleaginous orgy ! Was there ever such 
a rind ? 

And then, of course, the thing happened ! Someone had 
seized the end just as it was disappearing, and was tugging 
it back energetically. Curse ! He opened his eyes and 
blinked. If it was one of his own hens7 he would—well, 
give her a very bad time. Perhaps kill her, perhaps only 
neglect her. But, no ! As he looked into his rival’s eyes 
he realized that he was up against a large brown cock, one 
of the Rhode Island wretches that belonged to Mr. Waite, 
the wheelwright. Venom and hatred stirred in his blood. 
When this little matter of the rind was determined he would 
settle with this Rhode Island upstart. He was somewhat 
exhausted and nearly two inches of the rind had been 
reclaimed by his rival. Backwards and forwards they 
swung, their feathers sticking out with sinister promise of 
the real fight that was to follow. The white cock had 
regained a quarter of an inch when the rind snapped. He 
gulped his remaining portion, and drew back ready for 
the fray. Both beaks were lowered, when suddenly the 
white cock beheld an approaching terror, a large, savage 
mongrel dog rushing towards them. With a scream he 


ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 201 

turned, flapped his wings, dashed through the bushes, and 
left the brown cock to his fate. 

II 

/* J im • Quick ! Quick ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Waite, run¬ 
ning out of the cottage. Jim Waite appeared at the door 
of his shed, a hammer in his hand : 

“ What is it ? What’s the matter, Ida ? ” he called out, 
running towards her. 

“ That dog ! That savage mongrel dog of the Beans 
has killed one of our fowls ! O Lordy, it’s the cock, too ! 
It’s killed the cock ! ” 

“ Where is it ? ” 

“ Look ! Running across the road.” 

Jim Waite was angry. This was not the first time that 
mongrel dog of the Beans had raised his ire. It always 
growled savagely at him and at his wife and children. On 
one other occasion he had found a fowl murdered, and he 
had had his suspicions. 

He ran into the road in pursuit. The dog, scared at 
first by the shouts of Mrs. Waite, had left its victim and 
darted under a culvert the other side of the road. Jim 
bent down, picked up a stone, flung it into the opening of 
the culvert, and, as chance would have it, hit the dog on 
its flank. The dog became angry. It saw red, and like¬ 
wise Mr. Waite. It ran out and round him in a circle, 
growling, and then made a sudden rush. Jim was a 
powerfully-built man, and he brought the hammer down 
plomp on the mongrel’s skull. It would kill no more 
fowls. 

The matter might have ended there had not Mr. Bean, 
the retired corn-chandler, at that moment turned the 
corner in his dog-cart and beheld Jim with the hammer in 
his hand, standing above the corpse of his pet dog. Now 
Mr. Bean was a thin, wiry man of rather bucolic and eccen¬ 
tric temper. Moreover, he had a great affection for this 
o 


202 ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 


most unpopular dog of indeterminate breed. Long before 
he reached the group he roared out: 

“ What the devil have you done ? ” 

Equally angry, Mr. Waite roared back : 

“ I’ve ridded the neighbourhood of this vile beast that’s 
just murdered my cock ! ” 

“ Your cock ! What the devil does it matter about 
your cock ! ” 

The dog-cart pulled up, and Mr. Bean jumped out. 
Before either of the men could say another word, Mrs. 
Waite pointed to the other side of the hedge and screamed : 

“ Look! Our only cock ! Your blamed dog’s killed 
it. It’s always trying to bite everyone.” 

Mr. Bean followed the direction where she was pointing. 
His side-whiskers shaking, he exploded: 

" Well, then, it was in my ground. If your cock comes 
into my ground, my dog is justified in killing it.” 

“ There was another cock there-” 

" Be damned to that! ” 

Mr. Waite appeared, a formidable figure towering in the 
road, with the hammer in his hand, as he said, savagely: 

“You shall pay for my cock ! ” 

Nevertheless Mr. Bean replied with spirit: 

“You shall pay for my dog ! ” 

“ Dog, you call it ? Bah ! ” 

III 

The attitude of both men appeared threatening, partic¬ 
ularly as Mr. Waite handed the hammer to his wife and 
began to take off his coat. What would have been the 
immediate outcome is difficult to say. But the uproar 
and disturbance upset the rather highly-strung young 
horse, which began to trot off up the road. Mr. Bean did 
not notice this till it had gone about twenty yards. Then 
he called after it, but the horse took no notice. So Mr. 
Bean began to run. He would probably have caught it, 


ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 203 

but a little farther on a farmhand, late for his breakfast, 
came swinging down a narrow lane into the road on a 
solid-tyre bicycle. He did not expect to find a horse and 
trap there, and he just ducked under the horse’s nose and 
his back tyre struck the left shaft, and he was thrown. So 
far as the horse was concerned, that put the lid on things. 
He put back his ears and bolted, with Mr. Bean a kind of 
forlorn “ also ran.” 

The farm-hand picked up his bicycle and swore. Jim 
Waite picked up the dead dog, and flung it into Mr. Bean’s 
strip of land. Mrs. Waite picked up the dead cock, and 
muttering to Mr. Waite: “ Well, we’d meant to kill this 
week, anyway,” she took it inside and plucked it while it 
was warm. 

Mr. Bean was a good runner, and he tore down the road, 
yelling : “ Stop him ! Stop him ! ” 

He had lost his dog, and the prospect of losing his horse 
also spurred him on. But a young horse, even encumbered 
by a dog-cart, can run faster than the fastest man. The 
distance between them widened. He could see the dog¬ 
cart swaying and swerving, but the horse stuck to the road. 
Mr. Bean ran over half a mile. It was a deserted part of 
the country, and nothing passed him. The horse and 
cart were out of sight. He rested for a few moments, and 
then ran on. When he had travelled about another four 
hundred yards he beheld a group of dark objects at the 
angle of two narrow roads. For some moments he could 
not distinguish what they were, but his instinct told him 
that something had happened. On approaching nearer, 
he beheld a large car, apparently jammed into the embank¬ 
ment by the side of the road ; his dog-cart appeared to be 
hugging its mudguards. Two of three figures were moving 
about, but there was no sign of the horse. He rushed up, 
panting. When within hailing distance, he called out: 

“ What’s up ? What’s happened ? Where’s my horse ? ” 


204 ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 


IV 

Three busy men turned and regarded him. One was a 
young chauffeur. The other two were a curious contrast: 
a tall, white-moustached man of the Indian Army type, and 
a thin, aesthetic young man in the early twenties. 

Now Mr. Bean was in the mood when the great thing he 
needed in life was sympathy. He was having a bad morn¬ 
ing. It was therefore an unpleasant shock to have the 
white-moustached gentleman turn on him in a blaze of 
anger and exclaim: 

‘ ‘ Who the devil are you ? What the devil do you mean, 
letting your damned horse and trap rush about the country ? 
My God ! you’ve buckled both our front wheels, and I've 
a most important appointment in forty minutes in Horn- 
borough.” 

“ Where’s my horse ? ” wailed Mr. Bean. “ I got out 
of the trap for a moment, and he bolted.” 

“ What the devil did you get out of the trap for ? ” 
roared the stentorian individual. The younger man 
grinned and said, casually : 

“ Your horse is all right, old boy. He’s trotting about 
in the meadow yonder, eating lotus-leaves.” 

Mr. Bean climbed up the embankment and looked over ; 
and, sure enough, there was the horse, two hundred yards 
down the meadow, nibbling grass in the intervals of staring 
nervously around. He did not appear damaged at all, but 
the left shaft of the dog-cart was snapped at the base and 
the wheel badly twisted. Mr. Bean, however, was not 
allowed to devote too much attention to his own troubles. 
The elder man, whom he heard the other address as 
“ General,” ordered him down in such a commanding way 
that he had not the power to disobey. 

" Now, my man, listen to me,” roared the parade- 
ground voice. “ How far is it to Hornborough ? ” 


ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 205 


“ Nine miles,” replied Mr. Bean, almost involuntarily 
adding " sir.” 

“ God ! ” said the General. “ And where is the nearest 
place we can get a car ? ” 

“ There isn’t a garage nearer than Hornborough that I 
know of.” 

" Isn’t there anyone in this God-forsaken part of the 
country who has got a car ? ” 

“ Only Sir Samuel Lemby, and I know he’s motored up 
to town to-day.” 

“ God! ” repeated the General, and, turning to the 
younger man, he said : “ What the devil are we going to 
do, my lord ? ” 

It occurred to Mr. Bean that the younger man, addressed 
as “ my lord,” was vaguely amused. He scratched his 
chin and said: 

“ It looks like a wash-out, unless we walk, General.” 

“ Walk! Nine miles in forty minutes.” 

“ Perhaps we could hire bicycles.” 

“ Bicycles.” 

The General’s face was a study in stupefied outrage. He 
turned to Mr. Bean and exclaimed: “ Are there no traps 
about here l ” 

“ Plenty, sir,” answered Mr. Bean, who by this time had 
completely succumbed to the overwhelming atmosphere of 
a general and a lord. “ But no trap could do nine miles in 
forty minutes.” 

“ But what the devil are we to do ? The Minister 
can’t wait. The train won’t wait. The House sits at two.” 

Mr. Bean was enormously impressed. He felt personally 
responsible for some mysterious national disaster. He 
said, weakly : " I don’t know, sir. It’s very awkward.” 

Then a bright inspiration occurred to him. “ A race¬ 
horse could do it. Sir Samuel Lemby has race-horses, but 
he’s away, and it’s not likely the head-groom would lend 
any out for such a purpose.” 


206 ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 


The eyes of the General started out of his head. 

“ He wouldn’t, wouldn’t he ? How far is it to this 
Lemby’s ? ” 

“ There’s the house, just up there, sir. Five minutes’ 


The General appeared to be calculating savagely. At 
last he turned to the younger man and said : 

“ Gevennah, it’s our only chance. You could do this. 
You rode in the Grand National. What you don’t know 
about horses isn’t worth knowing. For God’s sake run 
up the hill. Cajole, bribe, steal—do anything to get the 
horse. Five minutes, say another five minutes arguing— 
half an hour to do nine miles. Perhaps you can get across 
country, save a bit, eh ? There’s just a chance. The 
train goes at twelve-thirty-two. Oxted is bound to catch 
it.” 

The young man’s face lighted up. A queer smile twisted 
his mouth. 

“ All right,” he said. “ I’ll have a shot. Give me the 
report.” 

“ Here it is. I’ll follow you up the hill as fast as I can 
move, in case they want more persuading.” 

Mr. Bean was left alone with the useless car and the 
broken dog-cart. He saw the younger man sprinting up 
the hill like a professional runner, and the elder chasing 
after him like some valetudinarian crank trying to keep his 
fat down. 

As luck would have it, the younger man came slap on the 
head-groom and a subordinate leading two silk-coated 
mares out of the paddock for a canter. He approached 
the head-groom and smiled. 

" My friend,” he said, “I'm going to ask you to break 
all the Ten Commandments in one fell swoop. I am Lord 
Gevennah, a lover of horseflesh and metaphysics. The 


ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 207 


gentleman yon observe coming up the hill is not training 
for the Marathon. He is General Boyd-Boyd, of the War 
Office Intelligence Staff. You may suggest that War 
Office and intelligence are a contradiction in terms, but we 
have not time to argue the matter. The point is. Sir 
Samuel is a very old friend of the General’s and we are 
convinced that he would come to our rescue in the circum¬ 
stances.” 

The head-groom leant forward and said : “ Excuse me, 
sir, but would you mind telling me what you’re talking 
about ? ” 

“ A very reasonable request. Farther down the hill, at 
the cross-roads, you may also observe a car jammed 
against the embankment. Both the front wheels are 
buckled. It is essential that we deliver a report—this 
report, my friend—to Sir Alfred Oxted, the Minister. He 
is catching the twelve-thirty-two train at Hornborough for 
London. The report affects the whole aspect of the argu¬ 
ment affecting a Bill that is being discussed in the House 
this afternoon.” 

“ What is it you want me to do, sir ? ” 

“ I want the loan of that beautiul roan mare which for 
the moment your figure so gracefully adorns, for the 
purpose of riding to Hornborough.” 

“ What! Lend you one of Sir Samuel’s racers ! ” 

“ Precisely, my friend.” 

“ Not on your dear life ! Lend you Iconoclast to go 
monkeying about the high roads on ! Why, it’s more than 
my place is worth.” 

“ Is your place worth more than the interests of the 
people—the vital necessities of the nation ? ” 

“ I know nothing about it. I work for Sir Samuel 
Lemby. If you get his permission-” 

“ We have his permission—morally. He is one of the 
General’s oldest friends.” 

“I’ve only got your word for it. Sir Samuel paid four 


208 ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 


thousand seven hundred and fifty for this mare. It can’t 
be done.” 

“ Come! this is quibbling; time is precious. The 
General said we should waste five minutes arguing. But if 
you will kindly dismount, I shall still have half-an-hour to 
get to Hornborough. I promise to bring the mare back 
safely.” 

” It can’t be done, my son. For all I know the whole 
thing may be a cock-and-bull story.” 

“ Ah ! here comes the General. General, I’m afraid 
our friend demands security.” 

“ Well, for God’s sake give it to him. What the devil 
does he think we are ? ” 

“ Produce everything you’ve got, General. Pocket- 
book, money, despatches. I will do the same.” 

The head-groom beheld wallets of notes being produced, 
and he became frankly interested. In the end he accepted 
a bribe of two hundred and twenty-five pounds in cash for 
the loan of Iconoclast for one hour. 

“ It’s an awful risk,” he said, dismally, as he dismounted. 

“ If you do not take risks you will never arrive,” replied 
the young man, leaping into the saddle. “ Without taking 
risks great battles would not have been won, colonies 
founded, discoveries made. Iconoclast! an excellent 
name! Come, old friend ! Iconoclast, breaker of idols, 
shatterer of illusions, trusted enemy to false prophets i 
Come! ” 

He pressed the mare’s flanks gently with his knees, and 
she responded. 

“ Only twenty-nine minutes ! ” roared the General. 

The young man turned a laughing face and waved his 
hand. His progress was visible to the anxious General’s 
eye for nearly half a mile. The narrow road flanked a sixty- 
acre field and led into a bridle-path through a chain of 
little coppices. By taking this bridle-path, the head-groom 
had explained that he would save a mile or two, as well as 


ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 209 


the horse’s feet. The last they saw of him, he appeared to 
be leaning over, whispering in the mare’s ear. Iconoclast 
was travelling like the wind. 

It was certainly a very beautiful ride. The bridle-path, 
which once had been a Roman road, ran for nearly six 
miles in almost a dead straight line. The ground was 
gently undulating. Woods flashed by, and open spaces, 
commons with sparse trees, sandy cuttings with gorse and 
furze projecting at tantalizing angles, stretches of blue 
distance with cattle grazing, sleepy rivers. On, on, raced 
this famous offspring of Babylon and Happy Days (you 
shall read of her in Borwell’s History of the Turf). 

The young man’s face was alight with pleasure. Occa¬ 
sionally he slackened the mare’s speed to glance at his wrist- 
watch. When the road was reached there were three miles 
to go, and twelve minutes to accomplish it. Iconoclast 
had justified her good name. 

“ Steady, now, old girl, steady! We’re reaching the 
stormy outposts of Christian gentlemen.” 

A sign-post pointed eastward to Hornborough. Fortun¬ 
ately the road was still what is known as a secondary road. 
A few cars flashed by, their drivers a little nervous of this 
bolting apparition of man and beast. Hay-carts lumbering 
leisurely out of fields were the serious source of danger, men 
on bicycles, market carts, all the slow-moving things. 

Twelve minutes, eleven minutes, ten—the road sloping 
upwards violently to the headland that looks down on the 
Horn valley. 

Nine minutes, eight and a half, eight—the summit 
reached. Down below, the sleepy valley, almost im¬ 
pervious to the thrusts of time. Thus it must have looked 
in Boadicea’s time. A few more hamlets, a few more 
cultivated fields. 

“ Whoa up, old girl! ” 

The signboard said one and a quarter miles to Horn- 
borough Station. One mile and a quarter, and eight 


210 ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 

minutes to go ! His faith ! a worthy beast, this Iconoclast! 
One mile and a quarter, and all the way a gentle slope down¬ 
ward. If ever there was a pleasant sporting prospect, here 
was one. To travel at the rate so far maintained would bring 
the horse and rider to their destination with some minutes to 
spare. Away on the horizon appeared tiny white balls of 
smoke, like little lumps of cotton-wool being shot out of a 
toy gun. It was the train. He again consulted his wrist- 
watch and estimated the distance. “ It’s four minutes 
late! ” he exclaimed, a shade of disappointment in his 
voice. It would appear, in any case, not an occasion to 
tarry. One mile and a quarter, and twelve minutes to go. 
But, curiously enough, the young man seemed in no hurry. 
He tethered the mare to a gate, on the top bar of which he 
perched himself, and lit a cigarette. 

" A glorious ride, Iconoclast, old friend ! ”he said, strok¬ 
ing the mare’s nozzle. He appeared to be making a careful 
calculation, his eyes wandering from the little blobs of 
cotton-wool to his watch. After some minutes he flung his 
cigarette away, and again took to the saddle. The last 
mile and a quarter was done at express speed, but certainly 
not at the greatest speed of which the mare was capable. 
The rider seemed a little agitated by some meticulous 
calculation. Some of the road was covered in whirlwind 
fashion, but there were unaccountable slackenings and 
halts. 

When the little market town of Hornborough was 
reached, the blobs of cotton-wool arrived simultaneously. 
There was a furious ride along the broad High Street, terri¬ 
fying the owners of booths and stalls. Shopkeepers ran to 
their doors, women clutched their children, and dogs 
barked. But horse and rider swung round the corner into 
Church Street, dashed across Ponder’s Green, up the slope 
into the station-yard, and arrived just as the train went out! 
The whole town must have observed that dramatic ride and 
commented on it. A young man, on one of Sir Samuel’s 


ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 211 


race-horses—some said it was Iconoclast herself—racing to 
the station to catch the London train—why ? 

VI 

He flung the reins to an outside porter, and dashed into 
the station and on to the platform. 

“ The train has just gone, sir/’ exclaimed the ticket- 
collector, grinning. It may be observed, at this juncture, 
that there is a type of individual who loves to impart in¬ 
formation of this kind. He loves to tell you you have just 
missed your train, or that you are in the wrong train, or 
that there isn’t another one for four hours. His supreme 
idea of joy is to be able to tell you that you have just missed 
your last train. It isn’t nice. 

On this occasion our hero—for so he surely must be— 
merely muttered the formal exclamations of disappoint¬ 
ment, and then went back and remounted his steed, after 
flinging the improvised groom a purse of gold. (No, if we 
remember rightly, it was a shilling.) Anyway, he galloped 
back through the town for all the world to see. 

Instead, however, of returning the way he had come, he 
bore off to the west and, after ten minutes’ ride, cantered up 
the chestnut avenue that led to a Georgian house. In the 
circular drive in front of the entrance-hall he espied a butler 
taking a parrot in a cage out for an airing. He called out: 

“ Hi, Fareweather, can you hold my mare for five 
minutes ? I can’t stop. Is Miss Alice in ? ” 

“ Yes, my lord. With pleasure, my lord. She’s in the 
Dutch garden, watering the gentians.” 

Ah! watering the gentians! How like Alice! The 
Dutch garden was excellent. It had the added charm of 
being sunk. 

The girl looked up at him with that dreamy, does-any- 
thing-else-exist-but-thou-and-I expression, and he crushed 
her in his arms. These preliminaries being concluded, she 
said: 


212 ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 


“ Well ? ” 

And appropriately enough he answered : 

“ There’s a destiny which shapes our ends, rough-hew 
them how we will! ” 

“You look as though you had just invented a new 
religion.” 

“ And so I have, but I haven’t had time to patent it. 
This afternoon the Government will fall, and it will be my 
work. Religion and opportunity are old bedfellows.” 

“ Tell me.” 

“You know the storm that has raged round the Subsidies 
Bill. It has been working to a crisis. The Government 
have staked their all on squashing the amendment which 
our people are putting this afternoon. A delicate subject 
like this is largely a question of figures. Figures can be 
impressive, but a clever man can use them either way. 
That is what they’ve been doing. They have the control 
end of statistics, and statistics can be wangled. Over the 
week-end I was at Clive Hall. I was supposed to be there 
for polo, but I found myself in a mare’s nest of conspirators 
and wanglers. Brigadiers and carpet-salesmen, they’ve 
been all over the country, drawing up a report.” 

“ Is it a false report, Mervyn ? ” 

“Yes, and no. A report can be false not so much by 
what it says as by what it leaves out. See ? This was a 
devilish, wanglish, naughty, spiteful report, and they were 
going to spring it on the House this afternoon, to crush our 
people’s amendment. I didn’t show my hand. I’m only a 
polo player. I was full of sympathy. A chutney-biting 
brigadier named Boyd-Boyd fixed an appointment on the 
’phone with Oxted, at Hornborough Station, for the 
twelve-thirty-two. Fie was to deliver the goods. I offered 
to accompany him, making the excuse that I had to go to 
town. Cyril lent us his car. We had got as far as some 
God-forsaken spot in the Weynesham Valley. I was 
desperate. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to dot the 


ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 213 

old chap over the head and bolt or whether to pinch the 
report and let it blow away, when fate supervened.” 

“ What happened ? ” 

" A horse in a dog-cart bolted. The fool of a man had 
got ouL for some reason or other. In trying to avoid it, 
our chauffeur ran into a bank, and buckled both the front 
wheels. We had nine miles to go, and there wasn’t such a 
thing as a car in the neighbourhood. The old Purple Patch 
nearly went off his nut. Then some magician produced a 
race-horse.” 

“ A race-horse ? ” 

“ Wasn’t it sweet ? I jumped at the idea. I knew that 
it would be up to me to do the flying handicap stuff, and 
with the report once in my possession all would be well. 
I rode hell-for-leather, and missed the train gracefully by a 
minute.” 

“ But what will you do with the report ? ” 

“ Give it back. It doesn’t matter. It will be too late. 
Figures like that are only useful when used at the right 
moment. To-morrow the Government will be down, and 
no one will care a rap about their blinking old report.” 

“ Oh, dear ! I’m glad I don’t have anything to do with 
politics.” 

“You do. You are politics. You are what we fight for, 
and lie for, and wangle for. You are religion. You are 
beauty. Haven’t you heard the saying : Homo solus aut 
deus aut demon ? You are the rose in the heart of the world. 
You-” 

“ Talking about roses, Mervyn, how do you like my 
gentians ? ” 

“ There you go ! You always spoil my best periods. 
Darling, one kiss and I must away.” 

“ Whither, O Lord ? ” 

“ To take the mare back, and face the fury of my bonny 
brigadier.” 

“ He will be angry ! ” 


214 ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 


“ What does it matter ? Did you ever know a brigadier 
who mattered ? When the big story is told, you’ll find he’s 
about as important as a—as a—piece of bacon-rind! ” 

VII 

“You didn’t ought to have talked to the boy like that,” 
said Mrs. Egger, as she poured out Mr. Egger’s glass of 
stout at suppertime. “ It’s set the boy on thinking ; and 
when a boy like Tom starts thinking it’s—it’s—bad for his 
health.” 

“ I like that,” replied William, blowing the froth off the 
stout. “ Why, it was you put me up to it. Didn’t you 
say-? ” 

“ I told yer to give him a good scolding. It would have 
been better if you’d boxed his ears. Instead of all this 
talk.” 

“ What talk ? ” 

“ Saying one thing leads to another, and so on.” 

“ Well, isn’t it true ? ” 

“ In a kind of way it’s true. In a kind of way it’s silly. 
Anyway, it sets him on thinking. I saw him in the shop 
this afternoon staring at them cooking-pears. I know he 
was thinking about what you said. Now if he took apples 
to-day, he might take pears to-morrow. It put the notion 
there, like. He’d never have thought of it. And this 
evenin’ he comes up to me and says, ‘ Mum, dad said one 
thing leads to another,’ and I says, * Yes, Tom ? ’ and he 
says, ‘ Mum, what was the first thing from which the other 
things come ? ’ Did you ever hear such notions ? Pass the 
pickles, dear.” 


THE 

MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 


I 

If one Sunday morning you wander up the Rue Cadec in 
Montmartre and lose yourself in the picturesque confusion 
of the market in that narrow fairway—or perhaps you may 
have to go a little further afield, round the corner in the 
Rue des Abesses—in any case, in one of these delightful 
streets you are almost bound to meet a very old lady who 
is always an object of universal interest. She is very old, 
fragile, and bent. She leans for support upon a stout 
hickory stick. In the other hand she carries a string bag, 
revealing her modest purchases of leeks, salsifis, bread, fish,’ 
and candles. She appears to be a very popular figure in the 
market. The men touch their hats and smile friendlily. 
The women call out: 

" Good morning, maman. May God preserve you ! ” 

And her face lights up with an enchanting smile that is 
in some queer way younger than her body. It is the smile 
of a young and simple soul, easily flattered, sensitive to 
affection or indifference. Antiquity has a beauty of its 
own. When all the passions are dim memories, all the 
discords inaudible, all the memories themselves mellowed 
by long years of serene detachment, the face takes on an 
expression of spiritual beauty that makes one wonder 
whether the owner were half so beautiful in the lambent 
years of youth. 

Now if you are a stranger, and you ask one of the habitues 
of the market: 

“ Who is the dear old lady ? ” 

You will receive a reply given eagerly and proudly : 

215 


216 THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 


“Oh, that ? Don’t you know, monsieur, that is the 
mother of Carmen Colignon.” 

“ Indeed ! ” you may reply, “ and who is, or was, Carmen 
Colignon ? ” 

And then a most curious thing happens. Your fellow 
marketer looks a little bewildered. If it is a man he 
probably tilts his hat on one side and scratches his head 
behind the ear. If a woman, she probably taps her cheek 
with a large latch-key, and then pouts and shakes her head. 
But whichever sex your marketer may be, you will assuredly 
get some such answer as this: 

“ Eh ? H’m ! Well, now, since you mention it, monsieur, 
upon my soul I couldn’t rightly tell you at the moment. 
Carmen Colignon ? Well, yes, she was—what was she ? 
A singer ? An actress ? It has escaped my memory. 
But that is her mother, I assure you, monsieur. We 
always address her as such, ‘ the mother of Carmen 
Colignon.’ ” 

Well, well, what would you ? The life of the streets, 
the life of the boulevards—indeed, all life is a fluid business. 
It flows past us, leaving a trail of fading memories, impress¬ 
ing upon us one central fact—that fame is a transitory 
thing, but that love and beauty have an endurance of their 
own. 


II 

Near the village of Cambo-les-Bains, at the foot of the 
Pyrenees, there dwelt a small farmer named Raymond 
Marcillac with his two sons and two daughters. He was 
regarded as a queer old fish, taciturn and reserved, and 
somewhat quick-tempered, a difficult man to know. After 
twenty years of a somewhat fractious married life his wife 
had died. Monsieur and Madame Marcillac had never 
been on the best of terms. She was a chicken-headed 
woman, used to city life, and she had never adapted herself 
to the farm. She was, moreover, considerably younger 


THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 217 

than her husband. Monsieur Marcillac was now fifty-three, 
and one might have predicted that the lamp of romance 
would have respectably guttered and died out. But oh, 
dear, no ! There came to Cambo a widow named Goud- 
chaux, who was a consumptive, and her daughter, Honorine. 
They stayed at a little sanatorium just adjoining the farm. 
Calling there one day to deliver some butter, he chanced 
to meet the daughter, Honorine, in the garden. He got 
into conversation with her. No one knows what was said 
on either side, but immediately after the visit the neighbours 
noted a striking and significant change in Monsieur Mar¬ 
cillac. His unkempt beard was trimmed. He scrubbed his 
hands and face at least twice a day. He bought a new suit 
and some smart boots. He made curious noises at his work, 
which some declared to be singing. And every day he 
made some excuse for calling at the sanatorium. 

Six months later he married Honorine Goudchaux, who 
was then in her twenty-seventh year. Her mother had 
died, and she went to live at the farm with Monsieur 
Marcillac and his two sons and daughters. 

It is difficult to discover what attraction the uncouth 
farmer, who was twice her age, could have had for Honorine. 
But there ! these things do happen, and sometimes happen 
quite satisfactorily. She was a tall woman, rather clumsily 
built; a simple soul, refined, sensitive, and though by no 
means handsome, she had a certain appealing charm by 
virtue of her transparent sincerity and honesty of outlook. 
She loved her husband, and she made him a devoted wife. 
All might have been well but for the children of Monsieur 
Marcillac. 

The two girls, Jeanne and Louise, were now respectively 
sixteen and eighteen. They had been badly brought up. 
Their mother had either neglected or spoilt them, and since 
her death they had lived a life of idleness and indulgence. 
They naturally resented the intrusion of this interloper, 
who was not only going to monopolise their father’s afiec- 
p 


218 THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 

tions but his property and savings. The sons also resented 
it, but they were of less consequence in the affair, as shortly 
afterwards they both married, and one went into the com 
chandler’s profession at Bayonne, whilst the other went to 
live on an adjoining farm. 

Ill 

These two daughters of Monsieur Marcillac soon set to 
work to make their stepmother’s life a misery. Coldly 
polite to her before their father, they tyrannised her 
directly his back was turned. And she was a good subject 
for tyranny, being sensitive and warm-hearted. She did 
her utmost to be friendly to the girls, but all her advances 
were repulsed. They sneered at her and mimicked her, 
and saw to it that all the heavy work of the farmhouse 
fell upon her shoulders. 

After the early repulses she accepted the situation with 
complacency. She was not unhappy. She worked hard 
and cheerfully, and always met her husband with a bright 
smile. She said nothing to him about the way his daughters 
treated her. And he, poor man, sensed nothing of the 
antagonism. His daughters feared him. He had an 
uncompromising way of dealing with disobedience and dis¬ 
respect, a way in which physical force was strikingly 
evident. 

His new wife delighted him. When his day’s work was 
done, he would return to the house, and the family would 
sup together. Afterwards he and his wife would sit out in 
the garden side by side. They were not a talkative couple. 
Honorine seemed to be satisfied just to be by his side, 
mending his socks or making up a frock. Monsieur 
Marcillac would smoke his pipe and read the newspaper. 
Sometimes he would put the paper down and talk to her 
about the prospects of root crops, or the prices pigs were 
fetching in the market at Biarritz. And Honorine would 
be enchanted. At night beautiful dreams would come to 


THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 219 

her. In the twilight hour between sleeping and waking 
she would be conscious of a mysterious outflow of intense 
happiness. . . . 

The child was born the following year, and what a to-do 
there was ! Monsieur Marcillac was overjoyed. There was 
a baptism and a feast, and the little girl was called Yvonne. 

Now if the two daughters resented the intrusion of the 
mother, the arrival of Yvonne added gall to their bitterness. 
Apart from the importunacy of the “ squealing brat ”— 
as they called it—it soldified the mother’s side of the affair, 
and caused the withdrawal from the work of the farmhouse 
of its most active and efficient helper. 

Monsieur Marcillac, moreover, quickly showed that of 
all his children this was to be the favourite. He was for 
ever hovering over the cot and nursing the little mite in 
his arms. 

This strange household functioned without any outward 
hint of cleavage for five years. It takes two parties to 
make a quarrel, and Honorine refused to quarrel. She 
submitted to every kind of insult and gibe. In only one 
particular did she assert her right and authority—the child. 
She knew she could not trust the two girls. They were 
capable of any criminal act. One day Louise smacked 
Yvonne for no other reason than that she was crying. 
Honorine flew at her and pushed her into a corner; then 
picking up a carving fork she said, in accents the passionate 
quality of which could not be misunderstood : 

“ If you ever touch my child again I will kill you.” 

Yvonne was left alone after that, but the mother was 
treated more cruelly than ever. At five years of age Yvonne 
was a beautiful child, quick and vivacious, with bright 
malicious eyes. Louise became engaged to a small tenant 
farmer named Bartholome Ombr^danne. Soon, perhaps 
she would marry and go away—Jeanne also. Everything 
would turn out well; Honorine held her course. In any 
case they could not destroy her dreams. , . , 


220 THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 


And then one morning Monsieur Marcillac complained of 
a sore foot. He had trodden on a rusty spike a few days 
previously and had neglected it. A doctor was fetched. 
The wound was treated, and he was ordered to stay in 
bed for several days. He did, indeed, stay in bed for one 
day, but the next morning he awoke at dawn and said to 
his wife: 

“ Honorine, my angel, who is taking those calves to the 
market at Biarritz ? ” 

“ Jacques, beloved.’' 

“ Jacques l A pretty dolt to handle such a deal. He’ll 
sell the lot for a capful of sous.” 

And without more ado he rose from his bed. Honorine 
protested, cajoled, and even wept, but she could not dis¬ 
suade him. He struggled into his clothes, limped down 
into the yard, saddled the mare, got the calves roped into 
the cart, and drove off. 

He returned early in the afternoon. His face was white, 
and he was suffering great pain. Honorine got him to bed, 
and the doctor was fetched. Everything that local know¬ 
ledge, science, and skill could do was done, but Monsieur 
Marcillac died within forty-eight hours from blood-poison¬ 
ing. 

IV 

It was some weeks before Madame Marcillac recovered 
from the first shock of her great grief. When she was once 
more able to guage the measure of her working life, she 
found herself facing a formidable situation. Monsieur 
Marcillac had made a will. It was a most elaborate will, 
displaying that relish for meticulous detail which is so 
characteristic of the French peasant. It might have been 
the will of some huge landed proprietor rather than that of 
a small peasant farmer. He had evidently devoted a lot 
of thought to it. In effect, it amounted to the direction 
that the farm was to be held in trust for Yvonne. Honorine, 


THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 221 


the eldest son, and Monsieur Ombredanne were appointed 
trustees. The bulk of the profits were to go to Honorine 
during her lifetime. At the same time a share of the profits 
was to go to his two daughters, who were to be allowed to 
remain at the farmhouse, and who he trusted would always 
treat his wife and her child with " Christian devotion 
and affection .’ 1 It was further decreed that Monsieur 
Ombredanne was to be appointed overseer at a fixed salary. 
He left various small sums of money to his sons and friends, 
and the furniture to his wife. 

One day the son, together with Ombredanne, and a notary 
named Pironneau, arrived to discuss the arrangements 
about the execution of the will and the future conduct of the 
farm. Honorine was called in, but they hardly addressed 
her. They talked animatedly about legal terms which she 
did not understand. This Ombredanne was an insolent, 
good-looking, youngish man, with a fair beard, large flashing 
eyes, and slightly protruding teeth. 

It was not till some time later that she realised that the 
salary fixed for the overseer was considerably in excess of 
what the small farm would stand. It was equally apparent 
that these three men were hand in glove. She signed all 
the documents set before her. And the realisation came 
too late that until Yvonne came of age she was to be little 
more than an underpaid drudge. She was tied to the farm, 
committed to live with the two sisters, and was entirely in 
the hands of Ombredanne and the others so far as finance 
was concerned. 

She bowed to the situation for the sake of her child. 
Nothing mattered provided little Yvonne had all that she 
required. And the farm certainly supplied that. There 
was always milk and eggs, and butter and bacon. But 
when it came to money—that was a different story. There 
was machinery to buy, a barn to be re-roofed, seeds and 
meal to be bought—Monsieur Marcillac had been appar¬ 
ently very negligent. At the end of the first quarter it 


222 THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 


was explained to her that the farm had made no profit at 
all. She wanted money for clothes and boots both for 
herself and the child. There was much shaking of heads, 
much elaborate explanation. Ah ! no, Madame Marcillac 
must wait. Perhaps after the harvest. 

During the whole period of Ombredanne’s overseership 
she never managed to get out of him more than a few 
hundred francs a year. She was forced to go shabby, to 
cut up clothes to make things for the child, to slop about 
the house in old shoes. It would not have been so bad— 
there was a fierce exaltation in the sense of self-sacrifice 
for her little one—if only . . . She could sometimes hear 
their cruel laughter, their whispers together, and then 
Jeanne and Louise would go out smartly dressed, and they 
would go for drives in the governess cart with Ombr£danne, 
and visit travelling booths and fairs. After a decent 
period—for they are very strict in those parts about the 
etiquette of grief—it was announced that Louise and 
Ombredanne were going to get married. It was also put 
to her, without equivocation, that the room she occupied 
was far too large for a single person. It was the only room 
in the house suitable to a married couple. Times had 
changed, etc. 

Well, well, little Yvonne was nearly six, and could run 
and talk. There was no reason why she should not be 
happy in the room above. It would be in any case farther 
out of the sound and influence of the others. And so she 
gave up her bridal chamber and moved up to the attic 
with her child. She was expected to do the cooking and 
most of the housework, as well as attend to the poultry 
and make and mend clothing for herself and Yvonne. 
And yet she found happiness in all this. The sun would 
come aslant through the open doorway, and she would peep 
out and behold visions of green maize through a trellis of 
pollard oak trees, and down below the pale blue ribbon of 
the Nive creeping from between the shoulders of majestic 


THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 228 


hills. And in her heart she sang as she took little Yvonne 
to the village school in the morning, and listened to her 
prattle when they returned hand in hand across the fields 
in the evening. She was a mother. 

V 

As the years advanced her antipathies to the Ombre- 
danne farmstead—he had now established himself as the 
master—became finer and more acute. They were less 
coloured by physical and material issues than by spiritual 
ones. Monsieur Ombredanne was unscrupulous and selfish, 
but he was not altogether a cad and a bully. He was 
rather seduced by the attractiveness of Yvonne, who was 
indeed a fascinating child. He would sometimes spoil her 
—give her sweets that were bad for her, pinch her cheeks, 
and call her a little <f bagful of sunshine.” Sometimes he 
would drink brandy and be loose in his conversation ; he 
would say things that bewildered and confused the child. 
The two sisters showed no signs of living down their anim¬ 
osity. They seemed to exult in saying unkind and improper 
things to Honorine in her little daughter's presence, and 
the child was beginning to understand. Something would 
have to be done. 

One day she went to see the notary, Pironneau. With 
considerable trepidation she unfolded her plan. The 
furniture had been left her by her husband. She wished 
to sell it, and with the proceeds go to another part of the 
country with her daughter. Monsieur Pironneau put on 
his steel-rimmed spectacles and regarded her critically. 
He then produced the papers relating to the estate. Plac¬ 
ing a blue form before her, he said laconically : 

“ You must have forgotten, Madame Marcillac, that you 
signed this paper agreeing not to sell the furniture until 
your daughter inherits the property.” 

She shrank from his unfriendly glance. " Yes, I had 
forgotten.” 


224 THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 


Going back across the fields she heard a lark singing at 
some invisible altitude. Apple blossoms were beginning to 
fall. Spring was merging into summer. 

“ Never mind, my little one,” she murmured, “ a way 
shall be found.” 

Nevertheless she remained two years more at the farm. 
And then Louise had a baby, and Monsieur Ombr^danne 
drank more brandy and sometimes became quarrelsome, and 
coarser and looser in his behaviour; and Jeanne became 
more cantankerous because a young man had made love 
to her, and then deserted her for another. And so one day 
Honorine packed up her few small possessions and went 
away with her daughter. 

VI 

She obtained a situation at one of the little hotels cater¬ 
ing for invalids. It was seven miles from Cambo, on the 
outskirts of a tiny village. The patron agreed to let her 
have the child, and they slept in a room above the stables. 
Honorine’s work began at six and did not finish till the 
establishment closed at night, but she was used to long 
hours. She had to scrub and scour, and wash the sauce¬ 
pans and the blankets, in fact do all the heavy work of the 
establishment, but it brought with it a sense of elation and 
freedom. The patron soon realised her worth and was 
fairly kind and considerate towards her. Yvonne went to 
the village school, and played in the garden and learnt her 
lessons in a loft, where Honorine strove to mould her mind, 
and night and morning they would pray side by side. She 
was happier than at any time since her husband’s death. 
Sometimes she would awake abruptly at dawn, as though 
caressed by invisible and loving arms, and she would 
think: 

“ Why am I so happy ? ” 

And she could not account for it. She would rise 
hastily and make Yvonne’s chocolate, and prepare eagerly 


THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 225 

for her day’s work. Perhaps she was happy because life 
is beautiful, and because her own was directed by a single¬ 
ness of purpose-love for her child. It made her happy to 
make clothes for Yvonne when she herself was tired to 
darn afid sew for her, to teach her and humour her,’ to 
suffer for her wilfulness. 

And as the years passed she found that the occasions 
increased when Yvonne made her suffer. She was spoilt 
at school, spoilt by the visitors to the hotel, spoilt by 
neighbours and strangers. She was already conscious of 
her prettiness and charm. 

Madame Marcillac only partially realised this. Whatever 
faults Yvonne might have, her mother took the blame 
upon herself. Neither could she endure for an instant the 
little bursts of anger and petulance when Yvonne was 
thwarted in her desires. 

They stayed at this hotel for four years, and then Madame 
Marcillac decided to make a change. She had saved up 
several hundred francs, and she did not feel that Yvonne 
was getting the opportunities for study and improvement 
which she might get in a town. 

They went to Biarritz, and took one room in a back 
street. Every day she went out to work, and in the 
evening did sewing and cleaning, or anything that came 
along. Nevertheless, she found life here more precarious 
and harder. Everything was more expensive, including 
Yvonne’s education and the little extra luxuries she 
increasingly demanded. At the end of the first year she 
had saved nothing, and her daughter was clamouring for 
greater comforts. She was of course incapable of under¬ 
standing the situation. She mixed with children in a 
better state of life, and she instinctively nurtured a grudge 
against her mother because she did not supply her with the 
luxuries these other children had. 

Madame Marcillac struggled on. She worked late into 
the night when Yvonne was asleep. She worked till her 


226 THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 


health gave way. She would probably have worked 
herself into an early grave, but one day she had a stroke 
of fortune. A neighbour brought her a Paris newspaper 
in which was an advertisement by a firm of lawyers asking 
for information regarding the whereabouts or existence of 
Honorine Goudchaux, daughter of the late Monsieur and 
Madame Henri Goudchaux. She wrote to the lawyers, who 
replied that if she were indeed the individual advertised for, 
it would be worth her while to go to Paris and interview 
them. Paris ! But what a journey ! What an expense ! 
How was it to be done ? Could she endure the separation 
from Yvonne ? 

But the same neighbour, having a shrewd suspicion that 
the money would be well invested, offered to advance her 
her expenses. 

And so one day, with much misgiving and heartburning 
over this first separation from her beloved child, she set 
out for Paris alone. The expedition was entirely satisfac¬ 
tory. She found the lawyers and proved her identity. It 
appeared that her mother’s brother, who had lived in 
Athens and was in the currant trade, had died intestate. 
He was unmarried, and Honorine was the only living 
relative. The fortune he left, carefully invested, would 
bring her in approximately twelve thousand francs a year. 

VII 

On receipt of this news she felt bewildered and some¬ 
what apprehensive, as though she were appropriating 
something which by rights belonged to others. And then 
suddenly she thought of Yvonne. Yvonne ! This meant 
clothes, presents, education, joy for Yvonne. Comfort 
and security for ever, a dot on her marriage. Tears came 
into her eyes as she thanked the lawyers. 

When she returned to Biarritz her health broke down. 
She went to Yvonne and flung her arms round her and 
kissed her, and exclaimed : 


THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 227 

Little one, everything is going to be better for you. 
You are going to have frocks and better food, and a nice 
place to live in, and a nice school, and everything you wish.” 

And then she trembled and burst into tears. She was 
obliged to go to bed and remain there for many days. She 
could neither eat nor sleep. A doctor came and gave her 
a powerful sleeping draught. 

You must have a long rest,” he said, “ you have been 
working too hard.” 

The mother and daughter stayed in Biarritz for four 
more years. At first the income seemed prodigious. She 
had no idea how far it would go. But she quickly found 
that there was very little over after they had moved to 
better quarters and she had paid for Yvonne’s schooling 
and her singing lessons and her multiplying extravagances. 
The child was very advanced for her years. At the age of 
sixteen she was already a woman, in many ways more 
sophisticated than her mother. She could dance and sing, 
and look at a man with that malicious gleam which pre¬ 
dicates the cocotte. But Honorine saw' nothing of this. 
Yvonne was beyond all criticism. 

One day she came to her mother and said : 

“ Maman, I am tired of this poky little town. Let us 
go and live in Paris.” 

Paris! Why should they go and live in Paris ? 
Honorine had got to love this country, this little white 
town, the blue rolling waves dancing against the rocks, the 
bold outline of the distant Pyrenees, the happy Basque 
people in their native dress, the tamarisks and eucalyptus 
trees. Paris! She sighed a little, knowing that Yvonne 
would have her way. 

And so it proved, for the following autumn the mother 
and child went to live in Paris. They took a small apart¬ 
ment out in Levallois Perret. 

It took Honorine some time to accustom herself to the 
new conditions. Paris was strange and bewildering. They 


228 THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 


knew no one there, and the people were hard to deal with 
and unresponsive. Yvonne announced her intention of 
having no more lessons except dancing and singing, and so 
she attended a conservatoire in the Rue Farzillan. It was 
known at that time—for some reason or other—as the 
" Conservatoire Voltaire,” and it was run by an old gentle¬ 
man named Sigogne, who had been a ballet master and 
producer at several Parisian theatres. 

At first Honorine was hardly conscious of the significance 
of this determination of her daughter to devote herself to 
singing and dancing. She was absorbed with the details 
of reconstructing their new home, and only too happy that 
Yvonne was having what she desired. As for Yvonne, she 
was deliriously happy. She found herself suddenly 
plunged into a world which she had believed to be un¬ 
attainable. She was in Paris, the Mecca of her dreams. 
She met girls who were going on the stage. She proved to 
her teachers that she was a pupil of more than average 
promise. 

At the end of six months Honorine received a visit from 
Monsieur Sigogne. He was a tiny little bald-headed man, 
who looked like a linnet. He hopped into the room and 
chirruped: 

“ MadameMarcillac, I congratulate you. Your daughter 
has great talent. She shall stay with me for two years, 
and then she will go far.” 

And patting her hands, he smiled, bowed, and took his 
departure without another word. Even then Honorine 
did not entirely grasp the significance of this new departure. 
It was brought home to her slowly, in the fulness of time. 
It came about through their friends. Honorine had few 
friends, but this deficit was more than atoned for by her 
daughter. Yvonne rapidly formed a great circle of passion¬ 
ate attachments. They were mostly fellow pupils or their 
friends. They came flooding into the little apartment, and 
their talk was all about stars, and salaries, and parts, and 


THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 229 

jealousies, and scandals. They were amusing people, 
vain and naive, self-centred, warm-hearted and impetuous. 
But Honorine was a little frightened of them. Moreover 
they added considerably to the upkeep of the establishment. 
They led Yvonne into extravagances which she could not 
afford. 

At the end of the first year she found they were living 
above their means. She did not complain. She struggled 
on, denying herself many little personal comforts. Then 
she heard these friends talking among themselves. They 
were discussing the question of when Yvonne would be 
ready, who she should go to, what line she should take up, 
whether she should concentrate on singing or dancing. 

One day when they were alone Madame Marcillac said 
to her daughter: 

“ My darling, is it your intention to go on the stage ? ” 

“ But of course, my dear/’ 

Honorine looked down at her long fingers, lined and 
drawn with years of toil. She heard her daughter add a 
little abruptly: 

“ I suppose you have no objection, mother ? ” 

" No, little one . . . you must do as you desire,” she 
said quietly. 

When rather less than nineteen, Yvonne went on the 
stage. She obtained a small part in a musical comedy at 
Rouen. Honorine stayed there with her. The piece ran 
for three months, but it gave Yvonne little chance to 
distinguish herself. At the end of the run they returned 
to Paris, and for a long time she got nothing else to do at 
all. This early disappointment upset her badly. She 
became querulous and bitter. It was Honorine who 
encouraged her, and painted optimistic pictures of her 
future. It was nearly a year before she got a small part 
in a musical piece that was to have an extended tour. The 
salary was very small and after considerable discussion it 
was decided that Honorine should not go with her. The 


230 THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 

expense would be too great, and Yvonne seemed anxious 
to be left to her own devices. 

Honorine spent a lonely time in her little apartment. 
She wrote to Yvonne every day. She sent her presents 
and all the money she could spare, for Yvonne’s salary was 
not large enough to live on in the way she had recently 
become accustomed to. Yvonne replied spasmodically. 
The longer she was away the less frequent became her 
letters and when they came they were usually concerned 
with her petty triumphs and conquests, and plaints con¬ 
cerning the expense of living on tour. 

Madame Marcillac decided that she must work. What 
could she do ? She had no skill or ability at anything 
except housework and sewing. And she knew that Yvonne 
would be ashamed of her mother occupying herself in this 
menial way. Nevertheless, she could not remain idle, and 
something must be done to counteract her daughter’s 
extravagance. So she went out secretly and got work at a 
pension near by. She worked nine hours daily, and at 
night came home and wrote a cheery letter to her daughter, 
giving the impression that she was leading a life of comfort 
and idleness. 

When the tour finished Yvonne returned to Paris, and 
Honorine deserted her pension, with a guilty feeling that 
she had done wrong. It would be superfluous to chronicle 
the record of the next three years of Yvonne’s career. It 
was an ordinary story of little successes and big disappoint¬ 
ments. She ran into debt and moved in strange company, 
whilst Honorine stood watchfully and protectingly on the 
fringe of these experiences. But at the end of the third 
year, she made a sudden leap to fame. 

VIII 

A Jewish gentleman named Karl Matz saw her dance in a 
revue at a cabaret in the Boulevard St. Martin. After the 


THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 231 

performance he went round to see her. Without removing 
a cigar from the corner of his mouth, he said : 

“ You are being badly managed. You can dance. I 
could do something with you. Would you care for a 
contract ? 

Care! Yvonne was beside herself with excitement, 
bhe signed the contract with Monsieur Matz next day 
binding herself to him for five years at a fixed salary’ 
whether working or not. 

It proved a highly satisfactory contract—for Monsieur 
Matz. 

He sent her to a dancing master, Poldini, to whom he 
gave very precise instructions. He also told her that she 
must change her name. Yvonne Marcillac sounded too 
sombre for a dancer. After a good deal of discussion, it 
was decided that she was to be called “ Carmen Colignon.” 
Three months later she appeared at the Folies Bergeres in a 
ballet called A Travers les Ages. She was a cave woman 
with bare legs and a panther skin in the opening act, and in 
the last act a society woman in a snake skin. She made 
an instantaneous hit. 

Honorine watched the performance from the back of the 
auditorium, and when she heard the roar of applause after 
Yvonne’s first dance tears trickled down her cheeks. 

When the show was over she hurried behind to take her 
child away. She found Yvonne surrounded by admirers. 
Her eyes were dancing still. She was almost too excited 
to acknowledge her mother, but when the latter whispered : 

“ Come, my little one, you must come home to supper ; 
you will be tired.” The daughter replied: 

" Oh, mother, I shan’t be coming home to supper to¬ 
night. I’ve promised to go out with Monsieur Matz and 
Mademoiselle Folvary and some of the others.” 

That was the beginning of Honorine’s tragic phase, 
doubly tragic by reason of her own foresight of what was 
going to happen. One may give to another one’s life’s 


232 THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 


blood, one’s love, and passion, and devotion, but one 
cannot make that other love one as one may desire to be 
loved. Yvonne did not really love her mother. She was 
fond of her, and she relied upon her, and respected her, but 
her real love was the glamour of success. In the years that 
followed it intoxicated her. She became the rage of Paris, 
and Monsieur Matz became a rich man. 

The more successful she became the more indifferent 
she became towards her mother, and the more devoted her 
mother became to her. She watched over her, and tended 
her, and prayed for her. When Yvonne was not dancing 
she was always lunching or dining with her friends, or 
driving in the Bois. It is to be feared that she was a little 
ashamed of her mother in the presence of her brilliant 
friends. Honorine was now nearly fifty. Her life of toil 
had left its mark on her. She was a little what is known as 
“ provincial.” She wore the same kind of old-fashioned 
frocks that she used to wear at the farm at Cambo. Her 
hands were hard and bony, like a servant’s. Her remarks 
were trite and commonplace. She was out of place in that 
astounding environment. Yvonne seldom introduced 
her. She would go down to the theatre and hang about 
the corridors, waiting to see if her daughter wanted any¬ 
thing. And people would say : 

“ Who is that old countrywoman ? ” 

And the answer would be : 

“ Oh, don’t you know ? That’s the mother of Carmen 
Colignon.” 

But even then she was not altogether unhappy. Some¬ 
times she would take herself to task and think : “ Why am 
I not unhappy ? I give my whole life to my daughter, and 
she does not respond.” 

And she would look down into the darkening streets, and 
see the crowds rushing hither and thither on dubious 
errands. Lamps being lighted, and somewhere in the 
distance a bell would be tolling. . . . And she would think : 


THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 233 

Even if she does not love me I can still serve her I 
am her mother.” 

And dreams would come to her. 

IX 

Within a very short time her mind was diverted by 
material considerations. At first the two hundred francs 
a month which Monsieur Matz had agreed to pay Yvonne 
appeared a princely sum. But when she became a star it 
seemed to dwindle into nothingness. A star must have 
attendant satellites and luxuries. Yvonne was far too 
dazzled by her facile success to worry over such details as 
settling bills or considering ways and means. The more 
she earned the more she spent. At the end of the first 
year Madame MarciUac found herself faced with debts she 
could see no way to meet except by drawing on her capital. 
She put the matter to Yvonne, who exclaimed: 

‘‘Oh, that doesn’t matter, mother. I shall soon be 
earning more, and when my contract runs out they’ll have 
to pay me thousands a night.” 

When her contract ran out! But that was four years 
hence. At the present pace Madame Marcillac’s capital 
would be exhausted before then. She pleaded with her 
daughter to be economical, to think of the future. Yvonne 
did make some sort of attempt to curb her extravagances— 
until the next temptation came along. Between the 
mother and daughter there began to yawn unbridgable 
chasms of reserve. Yvonne did not mean to be denied the 
attainment of these new delights. She became furtive and 
mendacious.. She borrowed money on the quiet, and 
made all kinds of excuses for breaking into Madame 
Marcillac’s dwindling capital. 

So far she had had many admirers but no one who could 
truthfully be called a lover. But a year after her leap to 
fame there appeared upon the scene a young actor named 
Max Gion. He was not a particularly good actor, neither 

Q 


234 THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 


was he very successful, and he had no money. They 
became engaged. 

Madame Marcillac thrilled with delight at her daughter’s 
engagement. The man was young and good-looking, 
and he had charming manners. It was a love match. She 
had always dreaded that Yvonne might marry some elderly 
man for his money. 

Soon, however, she found that what the young couple 
had most in common was a passion for extravagance. 
When not performing they spent most of their time in 
cabs and restaurants. Rather than being relieved, her 
financial commitments were doubled. The capital began to 
dwindle. Yvonne was dancing superbly, and “ Carmen 
Colignon ” was a star of the first magnitude. Her portraits 
were everywhere. She was painted and sculpted by 
famous artists. The journals rang with her praises. But 
Monsieur Matz was not inclined to deviate one franc from 
the terms of his contract. He had discovered her and 
made her. He had run the risk of her being a failure. 

At the end of the second year of their acquaintance the 
young couple married and took a little flat in the rue de la 
Baume. It was plainly hinted that Max would rather not 
have his beloved Yvonne’s mother to live with them. And 
so she took one room in a little street just off the avenue 
des Ternes. She lived alone, but her identity was soon 
established. When she walked quietly backwards and for¬ 
wards people nudged each other and said : 

“ Do you know who that is ? That’s the mother of 
Carmen Colignon.” 

And they argued amongst themselves as to why so 
beautiful and famous a star should have such a queer old 
fish for a mother. And some wondered why the daughter 
did not see that her mother was kept in happier circum¬ 
stances. And they shrugged their shoulders. These 
theatrical people! . . . 

As the years passed Honorine lived more within herself. 


THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 235 

Her love for her daughter became a vital abstraction. She 
gave her all that Yvonne might lead the life she desired. 
But they had nothing in common. Honorine hovered like 
a moth on the outskirts of this dazzling and dangerous 
effulgence wherein her daughter pirouetted to the clamorous 
approbation of the mob. 

X 

One day her daughter came to her in great distress. 
^ ax of the good looks and charming manners—was not 
all that he appeared. He had put his name on the back of 
a bill. Within seven days he had to find fifteen thousand 
francs. The alternative was a law case, bankruptcy— 
possibly arrest. 

The fifteen thousand francs was withdrawn from Madame 
Marcillac s capital. The gay life continued. Before 
Yvonne s contract had run out her mother was ruined. 
She had not a penny in the world except what she earned. 
She went out secretly and reverted to her old profession of 
housework and sewing. Yvonne seldom asked her mother 
how she passed her time. 

In the meantime Yvonne’s life had not been without 
emotional incident. As their debts increased and they 
saw no possibility of relief from the mother, they quarrelled 
bitterly. There were scenes, recrimination, almost ending 
in a crime passionelle. Eventually Yvonne had no diffi¬ 
culty in divorcing her depraved young husband, and 
immediately afterwards she married a rich elderly merchant 
named Mocquard. Paris was intrigued. Her reputation 
became more assured. When her contract expired she 
was re-engaged at an enormous figure. She was rich 
beyond her wildest dreams. 

It was at that point that the cleavage with her mother 
became pronounced. Madame Marcillac would not take a 
penny of her daughter’s money. She gave no reason. It 
was not for her to criticise. She went calmly about her 


236 THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 

affairs, her eyes filled with wonder and awe. She went 
frequently to see her daughter, at an hour when she knew 
no one would be about. On only one occasion did she 
show signs of distress. That was on the occasion of her 
first visit to the new house in the avenue Malakoff, when 
Yvonne, all aglow with her new wealth and success, openly 
boasted about it, and offered to make her mother a hand¬ 
some allowance. And the tears had started to Honorine’s 
eyes, and pressing her hand to her heart, she had ex¬ 
claimed : 

“ Oh, my dear, my dear . . . my little one. ...” 

But she could say no more, and she went quietly away, 
after refusing the offer. She was set down then definitely 
as a crank. She was pointed at in the street and laughed 
at. 

“ Did you ever see such an old sketch ? That’s the 
mother of Carmen Colignon.” 

Her figure became familiar on the boulevards, and once 
Sem did a caricature of her which appeared in Le Rire, and 
which made Yvonne very angry. Honorine shifted her 
quarters, and took a room up in Montmartre in the rue 
Cortot. 

Years passed. Her eyesight was not too good, and she 
had trouble with her feet, and one day she bought a stout 
hickory stick for support. She found work a little tiring, 
but people were kind to her. She made many friends 
among people of her own class, who were always anxious 
and willing to help her. 

One December day as she was walking through the 
square of St. Pierre there came to her a sudden flow of 
memories of her youth, of her husband, and the days on the 
old farm at Cambo. Cambo 1 Hard upon these memories 
came the reflection that the farm at Cambo belonged to her 
daughter. It was to be hers when she became of age. 
Strange that she should have forgotten this all these years. 
If Yvonne did not object she would not mind accepting 


THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 237 


the gift. It was associated with a period of calm happiness 
and purity. It was earned by her own husband by honest 
toil. She flushed a little at the temptation. Perhaps she 
would go back there to end her days. . . . 

Yvonne had no objection. She laughed contemptu¬ 
ously at what she called “ the old piggery.” Most certainly 
her mother should have it. She herself was far too en¬ 
grossed in big things to worry about such a trifle. 

And so one day she packed an old black bag and returned 
to Biarritz. She was away five days. She went to see 
Monsieur Pironneau. He was very evasive. He used 
terms she could not understand. Yes, Monsieur and 
Madame Ombredanne were still living there. They had a 
large family. He talked about entail, and forfeiture, and 
surrenders. She could not tell whether the farm was to be 
her property or not. The next day she went out to Cambo 
and wandered around it. She had not the heart to call. 
It all looked very much the same. She went back to 
Biarritz and again interviewed the lawyer. It is impossible 
to know how long she would have been kept there in this 
indeterminate condition, but her visit was cut short. On 
the fifth day she picked up a newspaper in the little pension 
where she was staying, and a headline caught her eye. 
“ Serious illness of Carmen Colignon.” 

She caught the night train back to Paris, and drove to 
her daughter’s house in the avenue Malakoff. A servant 
admitted her. The house was all in a fluster. Yes, Carmen 
Colignon was very ill. The doctor believed it was small¬ 
pox, caught at the theatre from one of the stage hands. 
Monsieur Mocquard was staying elsewhere. He had been 
advised to, as the disease was very catching. She forced 
her way upstairs. A dark-featured nurse met her on the 
landing, and exclaimed: 

“ You cannot go upstairs. The upper floor is isolated. 
Madame Mocquard is seriously ill.” 

“ I am going up.” 


238 THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 


“ Who are you ? ” 

“ I am her mother.” 

She pushed back a curtain reeking with disinfectant, 
and went up to her daughter’s bedroom. Yvonne was 
semi-conscious. For six days and nights she never went 
further from her daughter’s bedside than the adjoining 
room. She ate hardly anything and slept less. The two 
nurses, after the first irruption of her entry, took kindly to 
her. She was useful, and after all she was the patient’s 
mother. She had penetrated into the sick chamber, and 
if she was to catch the disease she would catch it, whether 
she stayed or went. On the sixth night she fainted from 
sheer exhaustion. One of the nurses gave her a powerful 
sleeping draught. She slept for eleven hours. She came 
to in a dreamy semi-comatose condition. She thought 
she was back at the farm at Cambo. Little Yvonne was 
packing her sachel preparatory for school. She was sing- 
ing in her childish tremulo a song called “Les fleurs qui 
p assent” 

The nurse entered and stood by her bedside. After a 
short pause she said: “ Madame Marcillac, I’m sorry to 
say your daughter passed away in the night.” 

Madame Marcillac turned on her side, but she did not 
speak. She wanted to hear little Yvonne finish the song, 
“ Les fleurs qui passent. >> 

After a time she wept a little and rose from her bed. She 
put on her cloak and went into her daughter’s bedroom. 
When she beheld her she made the sign of the cross, and 
knelt by the bedside. And there she remained in prayer 
for a long while. . . . 


XI 

All Paris flocked to the funeral of Carmen Colignon. 
Senators, merchant princes, artists, students, and actors 
drove out to Pere La Chaise. There were carriages by the 


THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 239 

score, and magnificent wreaths from Monsieur Mocquard, 
Monsieur Matz, and other fights of the theatrical profession. 
The newspapers outvied each other in eulogistic competi¬ 
tion. It was an event. 

Honorine walked to the funeral. 

In the distinguished company hardly anyone noticed the 
old countrywoman who hobbled into the cemetery, leaning 
on a hickory stick. She stood on the outskirts of the 
crowd, and when the ceremony was over she wandered 
away alone in the direction of the Seine. Alone! . . . 
She had no definite plans formed in her mind. She was 
stunned by the abruptness of the catastrophe, broken by 
the completeness of it. She found herself wandering by 
the north bank of the river, looking across at the pile of 
buildings on the He de la Cite, dominated by Notre Dame. 
The water looked grey and inviting . . . sleep-giving. 
Oh, how she needed sleep l It was Christmas time. People 
were hurrying hither and thither with parcels and flowers. 
No, it was not true that all Paris was at the funeral of 
Carmen Colignon. " All Paris ” is a phrase. Many had 
hardly heard of her. Most were indifferent. Even those 
who wept and sent expensive wreaths, how long would it 
be before they, too, forgot ? . . . 

Only love is permanent; only a mother’s love perhaps. 

. . . She looked up at the cupola of Notre Dame, and her 
eye alighted on the cross. Notre Dame! Oh, Mother of 
God! She seemed to sense in that instant the whole 
significance of her own fife, and yet she remained dumb . . . 
inarticulate. She could express nothing. She had given 
something which finked her to a spirit greater than her 
own. She looked up humbly, her eyes filled with wonder 
and reverence. Barges glided by, and the people hurrying 
in their thousands, people who had hardly heard of Carmen 
Colignon. She was conscious of her heart filled with pity 
and compassion ... of a great immensity, of something 
vast wherein nestle the loves, passions, fears, and frailties 


240 THE MOTHER OF CARMEN COLIGNON 


of every living thing. And turning her back on the river, 
she walked slowly away . . . 

XII 

Tap-tap ! Tap-tap! Along the Rue Cadec she comes 
this Sunday morning, smiling to herself as though with 
childish memories. And the men touch their hats and the 
women cry : " Good-morning, maman. May God preserve 
you! ” 

She hobbles on, her old bony fingers clutching the handle 
of the string bag. She passes by, leaving a trail of unex¬ 
plained delight. 

Tap-tap! Tap-tap! 

" Who is she ? ” 

“ Don’t you know ? That’s the mother of Carmen 
Colignon.” 

“ And who in God’s name is Carmen Colignon ? ” 

Just by old Grognon’s shop she pauses, and her face is 
silhouetted against the dark opening. It is lined and scored 
by a hundred tiny cracks and wrinkles, but the beauty 
remains. And one regards it as, after many years, a reader 
might regard a leaf that had been pressed between the leaves 
of some old volume and long forgotten; and the reader 
gazes enchanted, held by the vision of this magic network 
of myriad perfections. 


DARK RED ROSES 


Twixt sleeping and waking there came to him a moment 
of quiet exaltation. His consciousness was revelling in 
the surf of some far distant and yet familiar sea where the 
sirens whispered: 

“ You are well. You are happy. You are virile. You 
have achieved great things, and you will achieve more. 
You are enveloped in love and beauty and youth.” 

The sun was creeping between the cracks of the dark 
blind. Spring ! In a short while he would be out in it all. 
He would grasp it in his hand—love, and beauty and youth. 
He lay there vividly intent upon himself, his environment, 
his happiness. 

Below the window the dew would be sparkling upon 
daffodils and jonquils, primula and violets. A starling up 
in the apple tree was chanting a eulogy of spring. In the 
next room—the white door slightly ajar—his wife was 
sleeping. He could almost see her, curled up in that way 
she had, like a little round ball, her glorious fair hair scat¬ 
tered over the pillow, her dark lashes, her beautiful fair 
skin, her small mouth firmly shut, just the tilt of that little 
wilful chin—how he loved her l 

In two rooms at the end of the corridor, Mervyn, aged 
nine, and Diana, aged eleven, were sleeping as only youth 
can sleep. . . . Children of this cloudless love match. The 
fullness and the richness of their day was before them, and 
he possessed it as much as they. 

Half dozing, half dreaming, he lay there an infinity of 
time absorbed in this sense of happiness ... he was creat¬ 
ing. He saw form, and the beauty of form, and the build¬ 
ing of form. He was a sculptor . . . 

241 


242 


DARK RED ROSES 


And then his mind abruptly registered the probable 
reason of his exultant mood—the letter which had arrived 
by the last post the previous night, announcing that his 
model had been accepted by an important Corporation in 
the North. He had received this sought-after commission 
above all his fellows. The work would take him a year to 
accomplish, but what a year! His consciousness cleared. 
He began to work on the details of his undertaking. 
Technical problems were being faced, the frenzy of creation, 
with its pains, penalties and ecstasies. He would give to 
the world all that was best in him. Dear life! to be 
happily married, to have children, to be healthy and virile, 
and at the age of forty-seven to be recognized as one of the 
foremost sculptors in the world, was it not enough on this 
Spring morning to work him into a state of fevered anticipa¬ 
tion and delight ? 

“ I musn’t think too much of myself, about myself. I 
don’t want it all for myself, it’s for the others—the people 
I love, even the people I don’t love. It’s all too big, too 
overpowering to take to oneself. Oh, the glory and the 
beauty of the world.” 

He restrained the temptation to get up and rush into the 
garden until he heard the familiar sound of domestic move¬ 
ments. Then he arose and went into the bathroom. The 
thrill of cold water down his spine urged him to song, deep- 
chested and passionate, even if a little out of tune. He 
rubbed himself down, his eyes glimpsing, not without pride, 
the fine proportions of his legs and torso. He completed 
his toilet with care and discretion, and then visited his wife. 
She was already drinking tea and reading an illustrated 
paper. He kissed her and exclaimed : 

“ Well, my darling, sleep well ? ” 

“ I always do. You’ve been making an awful noise in 
the bath-room.” 

He laughed tempestuously, teased her a little, discussed 
the petty arrangements of their daily routine, and then went 


DARK RED ROSES 


248 


downstairs to the breakfast-room. He always regretted 
that Laura insisted on having her breakfast in bed. Break¬ 
fast was the most glorious meal in the day. The sun 
poured into the breakfast-room. The garden was ablaze 
with green and white and yellow and red. “ Rags/’ the 
old sheep dog, bounded to him, buried its nozzle between 
its master s knees, and peered at him, its sentimental eyes 
gleaming amidst the profusion of shaggy fur. 

" Rags, Rags, dear old Rags, what is the day going to 
bring forth for us ? I’m hungry, Rags, what about you ? ” 

But Rags never seemed to be hungry. He seemed quite 
content to sit at the feet of his master and to feed on the 
glorious vision. A maid appeared with glittering silver 
dishes and a coffee urn. A gong sounded. He moved to 
the sidetable and picked up his letters and his newspapers. 
His interest quickened. The letters, mysteriously intrigu¬ 
ing in their uncut state, linking him to friends, and the 
glamour of his career ; the newspapers equally so with the 
whole cosmic creation. What had the world to tell him 
to-day? He stood there happily bemused, turning the 
letters over. And then suddenly what a to-do! The 
children and their governess. He was enveloped in a swirl 
of pulsating vital forces. Youth consumed with the 
prescience of a terrific day’s programme. A terrific business 
having breakfast, making arrangements, anticipating, dis¬ 
cussing. He was almost overlooked in the important trifles. 
Just pleased to have him there, happy at seeing father well 
and happy, but no time for endearments, no time for 
questions or solicitude. The rabbits had to be fed. George, 
the gardener, was reputed to have promised to bring along 
two guinea pigs. A cousin was coming to tea. Mervyn’s 
cricket bat had got to be sent to the makers to be re-bound. 
Diana had to be reproved by the governess for calling Mrs. 
Weak, the housekeeper, a " silly sausage.” There was a 
picture postcard of Zermatt from Uncle Walter. All 
terrifically important . . . breathless. In the midst of it 


244 


DARK RED ROSES 


all he laughed loudly in sheer happiness. And the children 
laughed too, for no reason—just contagion, and Rags joined 
in the din. 

Breakfast over at last, and he lighted his pipe and went 
out into the sun. He sat on the bench below the tennis 
lawn, and looked at the spring flowers, entranced. At the 
end of the garden the black wooden studio partly concealed 
by foliage was calling him. He enjoyed the tumult of 
restraint. There was no hurry. Was he not fully con¬ 
scious of his powers ? Was he not even now, working, 
creating ? A wood-pigeon was cooing in the coppice beyond 
the^vegetable garden. His senses tingled with the thrill 
of the sweet, pure air, the perfume of wallflowers, the 
familiar comfort of good tobacco. His mind was working 
rapidly. Thus and thus would he do to improve upon that 
model. A curious sense of detachment crept over him, as 
though he were looking down on himself. Almost im¬ 
patiently he arose, and wandered through the grounds, 
his grounds and—hers. He was consumed with a kind of 
contemplative lust of possession. He found himself in the 
white panelled drawing-room. There, indeed, could he 
give his sense of possession full play. Was there ever such 
a beautiful room ? A genuine Queen Anne room with 
French windows leading on to the lawn. There was the 
jolly walnut tall-boy which they had bought on their 
honeymoon, from a dealer in Falmouth. He could almost 
see Laura now, leaning on his arm. He could hear the 
tone of her adorable voice: 

“ Oh, darling, wouldn’t it be lovely to have it ? ” 

It meant a lot in those days. They were very poor 
when they married. But somehow he managed to buy 
the tall-boy because Laura wanted it so much. And there 
it stood to this day. And it had collected around it a 
company of worthy fellows, a William and Mary cabinet 
which he bought at a sale in Seven Oaks, a set of original 
seventeenth century walnut chairs which he got at Christie’s 


DARK RED ROSES 


245 


at an appalling price. . . Things were different now. On 
the further wall was his choicest possession—an interior 
by Pieter de Hoogh in an ebony and tortoiseshell frame. He 
sank back in an easy chair and regarded it lovingly. 
Everything in the room was beautiful from the Pieter de 
Hoogh to the daffodils in a cut glass vase on the bureau. 
Everything was symbolical of the unity of his married state. 
His taste and hers—what joy it had been to struggle, to 
select, to build. He thought of the old days when he had 
been a poor boy apprenticed to a builder at Nottingham, 
showing little aptitude or ambition. It was not till he 
was nearly thirty that he suddenly developed the passion 
to express in form the strange surgings of his soul. He had 
saved up money and been to Italy and studied Donatello. 
. . . Thirty-five he was when he first met Laura. She 
seemed a slip of a girl, almost boyish. For a long while 
he had pondered over the problem of their mutual infatua¬ 
tion. He was twelve years older than she. Would it be 
right ? Could he make her happy ? “ When I am so-and- 

so, she will be so-and-so,” he envisaged every phase of 
married state. 

Well, well, he had nothing to regret. When they marry 
a man may be a little older than a woman. Especially if he 
keep himself fit, and y sane, and temperate. A man has 
all the advantages. He was hardly conscious of the 
passing years, except as they added to his spiritual stature. 
He had mastered his art. He had wrested from the social 
conflict honour, and fame, and wealth. His love had 
developed into a finer, richer passion than it had been when 
he first met her. She was linked to him indissolubly by 
the ties of children, and the associations of passion and 
tenderness. O God! how happy, how happy! . . . And 
they had built this beautiful nest in the Surrey hills. Step 
by step, piece by piece, their tastes ever in common, every 
little thing in the house was a symbol of their mutual 
understanding. And they were surrounded by friends. 


246 


DARK RED ROSES 


There was old Morrison, the painter, who lived at " The 
Seven Gables,” across the valley, a wealthy and entertaining 
old man who frequently came to dine. There were the 
Stapleys, and the Brontings, and Guy Lewisham, and there 
was that young violinist, Anton Falk, who had come to 
live with the Brontings, an engaging and romantic figure. 
Several evenings a week he would come, and play glorious 
passages from Bach and Paganini in this very room. And 
Laura would accompany him. He loved to lie back on 
the window seat and watch her bending over the keys, 
the pink glow from the lamp suffusing the beautiful room, 
the tense, pale face of the young fiddler frowning over his 
instrument. In music one finds the solution of all one’s 
spiritual unrest. 

He rose again impatiently, moved by an impulse to 
touch his possessions. He moved from piece to piece, 
smoking his pipe, and passing his hand affectionately over 
glossy surfaces. He buried his nose in flowers. There 
were flowers everywhere, flowers that she had gathered 
and arranged—spring flowers. Then once more he sat 
back in an easy chair and sighed contentedly. 

The door opened abruptly, and the room appeared to 
receive the final note of its ultimate expression. Laura 
glided in, wearing a frock of thick white lace, and in her 
hand she carried a bunch of dark red roses, wrapped in that 
thin paper that florists use. She started slightly at sight 
of him and exclaimed : 

“ Hullo, dear, you’re not working then-” 

He laughed gaily at her momentary confusion, and at 
the exquisite vision of her supple movements. 

" How clever of you,” he said, “ to come in at that 
moment. I was looking at the room. It just wanted that 
note—the girl in a white frock holding a bunch of dark red 
roses.” 

“ Aren’t they lovely! ” she exclaimed and bent over 
them. She removed the paper, scrumpled it up into a ball 


DARK RED ROSES 


247 


and threw it into the paper basket. Then she produced a 
a glass bowl and a pair of scissors. With loving care she 
arranged the roses, humming to herself as she cut their 
stalks, and set them in the bowl on the centre table. His 
eyes caressed her every movement. When she had com¬ 
pleted her task she went across to him and sat on the arm 
of his chair. 

“ Don’t they look lovely 1 ” she murmured. 

“ Yes,” he said. “ They are exquisite—almost exotic. 
It is early in the year for roses.” 

She sighed as though a little impatient of his plaint. 

“ They must come from abroad,” he ruminated. “ Or 
perhaps bred under glass. We do not get such roses here 
till June.” 

“ They come from Stoole’s, the florists,” she explained, 
fluttering towards the window like a little bird restless for 
flight. 

“ Davy,” she suddenly added, “ is it quite easy to take a 
cast of anyone’s hands ? ” 

“ Yes, quite easy.” 

“ I thought it would be rather jolly to have a cast of 
Anton’s hands. Have you ever noticed what beautiful 
hands he has ? ” 

“Yes, they are beautiful hands.” 

“ There’s something romantic about the hands of a 
musician, something one would like to preserve. He is 
coming this evening. Do you think you could spare 
time ? ” 

“ Why, of course. It would take less than an hour of 
my valuable time. You shall have a cast of your fiddler’s 
hands, my dear.” 

“ Thanks so much, Davy.” 

The little bird fluttered through the French window and 
down into the garden. But the man continued to sit there, 
intent on his happiness and the serene beauty of the room. 
The dark red roses produced in the artist in him a queer 


248 


DARK RED ROSES 


emotion. They were extraordinarily beautiful, and yet 
they left upon him a slight impression of disquiet. The 
room was no longer so serene or tranquil. They were a 
note of luxury and defiance. In the fullness of their 
blooming two petals had already dropped, and lay upon 
the dark table like little pools of blood. It was the season 
for daffodils and primroses, the virgin flowers which herald 
in the spring, but these spoke of warm summer nights or 
southern climes. 

It is early in the year for roses.” 

Very slowly he rose, and walked towards them. The 
richness of their perfume assailed his nostrils. Much as he 
loved them they jarred his sensibilities, like a perversion 
or a wanton feast. He turned away, and went as though 
driven by some subconscious force to the waste-paper 
basket. With quiet deliberation he unfolded the paper 
they had been wrapped in. A piece of card had apparently 
escaped his wife’s detection. He picked it up and read it. 
On it was scribbled in pencil, " To my darling.” There 
was no signature. Guiltily he tore it up, and returned it 
and the paper to the basket. 

And that morning he worked with the fury of creation. 
With long strides he reached his studio. His hands 
clutched and fashioned great masses of clay. Forms 
emerged from chaos, forms expressing beauty and humility. 
So engrossed was he with his new concepts that he did not 
return to the house for lunch. He sent his assistant over 
for a tray of food, which he devoured savagely, standing 
by his model all the while, like a mother fearful of some 
treacherous attack upon her child. 

Sometimes the laughter of the children, playing in the 
garden, reached him, and once he heard his wife singing. 

. . . The long day drew on. At six o’clock his assistant 
left. A little later there was a tap at the door, and it opened 
before he had time to say, “ Come in.” 

Laura came gaily in, followed by the young man. 


DARK RED ROSES 


249 


“ Here’s Anton, dear. Are you very, very busy ? ” 

Her eyes were sparkling with the love of life. The young 
man was grave and deferential. 

“ Very, very busy. How are you, Anton ? ” 

“ What about those hands, David ? ” 

“ Ah, yes, I had forgotten. Those hands—let me see 
them, Anton.” 

The young man held out his long delicate fingers. 

“Yes, they are indeed beautiful hands, beautifully 
proportioned. The fingers long and tapering, the tips 
slightly flattened. Beautiful hands. I will take a cast of 
them. But you must excuse me for the moment. I have 
something to finish. Anton will stay to dinner. After¬ 
wards we will have a little music perhaps ? And then I 
will take a cast of Anton’s hands.” 

“You mustn’t work too hard, Davey. You haven’t 
left the studio since ten o’clock this morning. You’ll be 
knocking yourself up.” 

“ Thank you for your solicitude. I’m feeling remarkably 
robust. Now run away and play, children.” 

Any feeling of constraint which might have marred the 
dinner party that evening was dissipated by the arrival of 
Laura’s mother, a dear old lady who was extremely 
garrulous and amusing. As a matter of fact the dinner was 
unusually merry. Laura was in the highest spirits, and 
David talkative and reminiscent. Only the young man 
seemed self-conscious and reserved, plainly anxious for the 
meal to end. But if his tongue was silent, he was sufficiently 
eloquent with his eyes. 

The music that followed was not a success. Anton was 
obviously not in the mood, and Laura was apt to be 
frivolous. The old mother acknowledged frankly that 
classical music bored her. 

David was restless and eager to consummate his pre¬ 
conceived purposes. 

During a pause he arose abruptly and said : 

R 


250 


DARK RED ROSES 


“ Come. I’m afraid we must terminate this concert if 
I am to take a cast of Anton’s hands to-night.” 

“ Why, yes,” exclaimed Laura. “ I was forgetting all 
about it. Shall we all go over to the studio ? ” 

“No.” David was emphatic. “You stay here with 
your mother. Anton and I will go over there alone.” 

He almost relished the tinge of disappointment which 
flickered at the back of his wife’s eyes. Out in the hall he 
said: 

“ Put on your hat and coat, Anton. These April evenings 
are treacherous.” 

They walked the length of the dark garden and entered 
the studio. David switched on the light. 

“ I shall not detain you long,” he said. “ The process 
is quite simple. Here is a bowl of sweet oil. Will you 
please dip your hands in it, and get them thoroughly 
saturated.” 

Anton did as he was bidden whilst the elder man pre¬ 
pared a mixture of plaster of Paris and water. 

“ Does it take long to set ? ” asked the violinist, advanc¬ 
ing to the bench where David was at work. He was 
holding out his oily hands. 

“ Oh, no, two or three minutes at the outside. But it is 
very necessary to keep the hands quite still. Now, lay them 
face downwards on this plaster bed. So.” 

He covered up the young man’s hands with the cold wet 
plaster. Then he continued : 

“ I have been handling piaster all my life. It is treacher¬ 
ous stuff, shifting, unstable, unreliable—not unlike human 
nature. In a case like this we usually use irons to keep it 
from shifting. Allow me.” 

He passed the iron bands over the pool of plaster and 
bolted it down into the bench. 

“ Does it feel cold ? ” 

“ It’s not too bad, Mr. Cardew. Will you explain the 
process to me ? ” 


DARK RED ROSES 251 

“ With pleasure. We leave your hands there for a few 
moments till the plaster sets. Then we remove the irons, 
and you will be able to withdraw your hands quite easily. 
There remains then what we call a mould. This I fill with 
more plaster mixed with soap and oil. I leave this to set. 
I then chip away the outer mould and we arrive at the 
completed cast. Quite simple and painless, you see. Laura 
was most anxious to have a cast of your beautiful hands.” 

He laughed a little recklessly as he uttered the last 
sentence in a cold incisive voice, and then he lighted his 
pipe. The seconds ticked by, and neither man spoke. At 
the end of two minutes Anton said: 

“ 1 think the plaster has set, Mr. Cardew. It feels like 
it.” 

David Cardew was perched on a high stool. He looked 
thoughtfully into the bowl of his pipe. In passionless 
accents he suddenly remarked : 

“ Dark red roses do not grow in April.” 

The young man looked up at him quickly: 

“ Dark red roses ? ” 

“ Nature makes laws, and men make codes. It’s all 
very much the same—the struggle for survival. Nature is 
cruel and relentless, man less so. He does not want to 
set up these codes. He is forced to do so. It is a blind 
subconscious force not so much for the protection of the 
individual as for the preservation of the type. We have 
our English saying, ‘ It isn’t done.’ It sounds inane and 
foolish and conventional, but in effect it is quite a sound 
dogma, founded on experience and tradition. It isn’t 
done, Anton Falk.” 

The young man gave him a quick glance and shifted his 
position. 

" Why do you say all this to me, Mr. Cardew ? ” 

“ Dark red roses in April—an exotic fancy! This is 
the time of year when the hedgerows are alive with little 
innocent buds, when the birds are mating, and youth and 


252 


DARK RED ROSES 


purity are at the helm. The flowers of darker passions 
are out of place. As a fellow artist you will appreciate this 
point of view, I’m sure.” 

The young man gave a sudden scared look and made a 
violent movement with his wrists. 

“ If you had the strength of ten men you could not draw 
your hands from that mould, Mr. Falk.” 

The two men then looked full into each other’s eyes, and 
both understood. Anton’s face was the colour of the plaster 
which encased his hands. 

“ What are you saying, Mr. Cardew ? ” he said breath¬ 
lessly. “ What are you implying ? It’s all false, I swear. 
My God ! what are you going to do ? ” 

This latter query was caused by David Cardew’s sudden 
action. He had reached out and taken down from the 
wall a Japanese sword in a carved ivory scabbard. Almost 
languidly he drew the sword and remarked : 

“ An interesting old sword this. It was given me by an 
American print collector, who brought it from Japan. 
It belonged to a famous Samurai. Wonderful people the 
Samurai, with a code of honour and morality that has never 
been surpassed. It is said that three people have already 
died by this sword—the wife, the lover, and then the man 
himself. Rather drastic you may say. In these days we 
should think it sufficient to kill the lover.” 

The young man who was hanging limply by his hands 
suddenly uttered a cry of terror. 

“ My God ! your’re mad, Mr. Cardew. Help ! help ! ” 

‘ ‘ They won’t hear you in the house. The walls are thick, 
and the wind is stirring in the trees.” 

“ Don’t talk like this. It’s all false I tell you. I know 
what you think, but it isn’t true. I’m not your wife’s 
lover.” 

The older man laughed cynically, and muttered : 

“ Dark red roses in the Spring.” 

“ I’m fond of your wife, very fond, but there’s nothing 


DARK RED ROSES 253 

else, I swear. I’ve never—Oh, for God’s sake release my 
hands 1” 

“ Very fond, very fond. Yes, yes, yes.” 

Suddenly the tones of his voice changed. He went up 
to his captive and said savagely: 

“ I'm not going to kill you. It isn’t done. Only listen 
to me, killing is not the only thing that isn’t done. Do 
you understand me ? I told you to bring your hat and 
coat because the April nights are treacherous. The reason 
is that when I release you, you will take the path through 
the vegetable garden and drop down into Hood’s Lane. 
You will go right away and never darken my doors again. 
Do you understand that ? Do you promise that ? or 
would you prefer to die ? ” 

Hanging inert against the bench the young man whis¬ 
pered : 

" Yes, I promise. But it’s all false—it’s all false-” 

“ I want no lies, no protestations.” 

He sheathed the sword, and replaced it on the wall. He 
was trembling all over when he unbolted the iron bands. 
Controlling his passion he managed to say in a calm voice : 

“ Steady now, steady, Mr. Falk. Withdraw your hands 
carefully. I must finish my work. Denise will be dis¬ 
tressed if she does not have the cast of the beautiful hands 
of the young violinist. There I that’s it, so. In the 
corner you will find a sink and some soap. You may wash 
your hands. I’m afraid they’re badly soiled. Then I 
will see you into the lane.” 

The young man was completely unnerved. He withdrew 
his hands and staggered towards the sink. He washed 
and wiped them on a towel, but he was careful never to 
turn his back on his late captor. He watched him furtively, 
prepared for flight. But David Cardew appeared already 
pre-occupied. His eyes were solemnly regarding the 
mould. There was nothing more to say on either side. 
When he had put on his hat and coat, both men went 


254 


DARK RED ROSES 


silently out. David led the way through the vegetable 
garden. At the end of it, he opened a gate that led into 
the lane. 

“ You know your way, I think,” was all he said, and 
the other replied, “ Yes.” They parted without salutation, 
and Cardew returned to the studio. 

His emotions were in a state of riot. He could neither 
focus nor decide upon his next actions. Youth, and 
beauty, and love—shop-worn! Savagely he chipped 
away at the outer mould. One sardonic desire pressed 
itself upon him. 

“ She shall have the beautiful white hands of her lover.” 

What was he going to do ? How far was she involved ? 
Could she possibly love this man ? 

“ He won’t come back anyway. I’ve frightened the 
life out of him. Spineless wretch ! ” 

A few hours ago his happiness had been unbelievable. 
And now—could it all be destroyed so easily ? Could all 
the associations of love, and passion, and tenderness be 
suddenly uprooted ? No, no, no, a thousand times no. 
She had loved him. Of that there was not a shadow of 
doubt. This must be some mad spring infatuation. It 
would pass. He would go to her. There would be a 
little scene, and then she would weep on his breast, and he 
would forgive her. And oh, he would be so gentle, and 
forgiving, and loving, and she would fall asleep at last in 
his arms, like the little child she was. A kind of fierce 
pride surged through him when he thought how forgiving 
he would be. He completed the cast of the fiddler’s 
hands. There they were, the beautiful long, tapering 
fingers with the slightly flat tips. He restrained the 
desire to hurl them to the ground. He had promised them 
to Laura. It would be a dramatic and potent way of 
starting their little scene. He would say: 

“Look ! Here are the white hands of your lover. Sha ke 
them. They have come to say Good-bye.” 


DARK RED ROSES 


255 


And Laura would give a little scream, and throw herself 
on the bed. He hated the thought of hurting her, but the 
position had got to be faced. The nettle had got to be 
gripped before its stalk became too strong. 

He wrapped the plaster hands in paper, shut up the 
studio, and went stealthily towards the house. A light 
was burning in the library. He hoped the mother had 
gone to bed. He would feign exhaustion and suggest that 
they went up at once. The bedroom was essentially the 
place for their little scene. He entered the hall noiselessly. 
To his disappointment he heard the voice of his wife’s 
mother in the library. A sudden idea occurred to him. 
Perhaps Laura had already confessed; perhaps she was 
confessing even now. He tip-toed towards the door, which 
was ajar. He pushed it quietly open another two inches, 
and stood there listening, holding the plaster cast in his 
hand. 

And this is what he heard—his wife’s voice speaking 
cheerily: 

" Oh, mother darling, I forgot all about thanking you 
for those lovely dark red roses you sent me from Stooles.” 

The mother’s voice: “ Oh, my dear, my dear, don’t be 
absurd. As though I should forget.” 

His wife’s voice again : “Do you know, darling, isn’t it 
a scream! but Davey did forget. He was so taken up 
with his silly old commission that he forgot all about my 
birthday! Isn’t it too funny! Mother darling, don’t 
remind him. He would be so upset, the poor dear ! ” 

David Cardew fumbled his way through the door, but so 
agitated was he that he dropped the plaster cast on the 
parquet floor and it smashed to smithereens. 











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V > / 













THE 

LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 

Well, well, what does it all matter ? Pass the little silver 
spoon. Stir. Stir very gently. For to-night is the night 
of the carnival. 

Quite soon Denise will be here. I shall hear her step 
upon the stair, the click of the latch, and then her gay 
laugh, and the mellow sound of that voice which means 
everything to me in heaven above and the earth beneath. 

“ Well, Anton, darling, are you ready ? ” 

Ready ! O, God ! how beautiful she is. She trembles 
in my arms. She is all vivid youth, and all utterly mine. 
When she is not here I do not exist, It is all a sluggard 
twilight; and suddenly she comes, and the birds are 
singing in the trees and the kingcups are glowing in a sunlit 
meadow. When I look into her eyes I am as young as 
she, a strong man of virile purposes. The poignant 
moment is all-sufficient. She is mine, and we are a twin- 
god praising the beauty of the hour. I feel myself a person 
of tremendous power. All that is best in me is newly 
discovered. I want to pour out all my strength to serve 
her. I am breathless for the exchange of understanding. 
Small things become charged with pregnant significance. 
We create as we look into each other’s eyes, and touch 
each other’s hands. We race along through golden corri¬ 
dors of time. No other hour has ever been till this. And 
yet I have heard men say she is not beautiful. Who am I 
to judge ? It is just that curve of those smooth cheeks 
that is Denise and no one else. Just that little tilted nose, 
the dark-brown hair, the poise of that dear chin and neck, 
257 


258 THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 


the slender figure. It is all hers, and hers and no other’s. 
And therefore it is mine. And those eyes that await on me, 
and are so eloquent, those eyes that never misunderstand 
me, that anticipate my thoughts, that interpret my love. 
And as I watch her move, and hear her speak, I do not ask 
whether she is beautiful. She is Denise. She is the 
alpha and omega of life. There could be nothing different. 
It would be unthinkable. . . . 

She sails across the room to me, holding out her arms. 
She is wearing a frock of fantastic hues, and in her hair 
dark-red poppies. Dark-red poppies! . . . Yes, yes, of 
course ; to-night is the night of the carnival! 

So vivid are these moments that sometimes I dream she 
is here before she actually arrives. I sit by my attic 
window, watching the little particles of dust flicker in the 
pale shaft of sunlight. Below me I hear the drone and 
cries of the great city. A woman over the way is playing 
that Spanish thing of Debussy’s —Soiree dans Grenade . It 
always excites me. I see the sun sinking behind the 
mountains. In the courtyard of a dim palace are groups of 
people. Three swarthy, dark-featured men are playing 
the guitar and the mandolin, their sensual faces grinning in 
the amber light. A woman is dancing, quite unconscious 
of their animal glances. Her body sways, expressing the 
subtle rubato in the music. Figures are moving covertly 
in the recesses of a balcony. Fireflies whip the shadows. 
It is a melody of joy and infinite sadness. The melody of 
the life of each one of us. . . . Strange that music should 
have this power! And as I listen to it I recall my first 
meeting with Denise, for she , too, is a dancer. 

No one ever danced quite like Denise. When I first 
saw her she was like grass blown by the wind, or blossom 
falling from an appletree, or flecks of cloud scudding across 
the sky at the break of dawn. She all purity and 
movement. It is odd how dancing may express all the 
emotions, exhaust the gamut of all the senses, excite, 


THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 259 

degrade, inspire, elevate. I had been riding since fore¬ 
noon. Business in connection with the transfer of one of 
my father’s estates in Picardy had necessitated it. My 
father was very old, and I an only son. Tired and thirsty, 
I rode into the courtyard of the inn at Couturet-en-bois. 
I gave my horse over to a groom. From the back of the 
inn came the sound of music. Languidly I went up to my 
room. I looked out of the window. I beheld a pleasure- 
garden where peasants made merry in holiday season. 
Beneath a tree two travelling musicians were playing a 
country gigue. On the grass in the open Denise was 
dancing. And I stood there and watched, and forgot all 
about my fatigue and my stiff limbs. She was little more 
than a child then, supple, lithesome, appealing. She had 
that peculiar genius of all good dancers in that she appeared 
to be quite unconscious of her body, and yet to have a 
complete control of it. A score or so peasants and travel¬ 
lers were seated on the grass. In the intervals there was 
applause and the buzz of talk. An old man took round a 
tambourine and collected money. I waited till the dance 
was finished, and then I buried my face in my hands. The 
figure of Denise had danced its way into my life, never to 
be deleted. I rang the bell. To the woman who answered 
it I said: 

" Who is this girl I have observed dancing in the grounds 
yonder ? ” 

“ Oh, that! ” replied the chambermaid ; “ that is 

Denise Floquet. She is the daughter of old Leon Floquet. 
—a worthless fellow, Monsieur.” 

“ How worthless ? ” 

“ He takes her round the countryside and makes her 
dance. He lives on her. Monsieur. For himself, he does 
nothing.” 

“ The old man with the tambourine ? ” 

" Exactly, Monsieur,” 

I thanked her and went down to the common room of the 


260 THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 


inn. I made inquiries and found that Denise and her 
father had gone on. A mood of melancholy came over me, 
as though I had lost my dearest friend. I ate my dinner 
in silence. Half-way through I pushed my plate away and 
went and sat out at the table pleasantly placed under the 
trees of the orchard. I sipped my coffee and dreamed of 
the little dancer. Three men came and occupied the table 
next to mine. We were the only occupants of the garden. 
I paid little attention to them, though I was conscious that 
one was a large, red-faced man who, judging by his remarks, 
was a traveller for a firm of spirit merchants; the other 
two were local tradesmen. When they had consumed 
several liqueurs their conversation became louder, and I 
could not help overhearing it. Suddenly I became aware 
that the large, red-faced man had made an unspeakable 
reference. He was laughing bucolically, and he said 
something which I cannot repeat. It referred to Denise. 
I am a hot-tempered man, and I sprang to my feet. 

“ You—you—unspeakable traducer, you ! ” I cried, and 
I flung the contents of a glass pitcher of water full in his 
face. 

I will not recall all the details of that distressing episode. 
We were all blind with rage. With the apple blossoms 
falling all around us and the birds singing in the trees, we 
fought—the four of us—among the marble-topped tables 
and the chairs. People rushed out of the inn and separated 
us, but not before I had knocked the large man senseless and 
flung him among the rhododendron bushes. Denise did 
not know, and never has known, that I had constituted 
myself her champion, or the price that I paid for it. For 
in the struggle I cut my wrist upon a broken wine glass. 
It bled profusely. In the night I became delirious, and a 
surgeon was sent for. I developed blood-poisoning. For 
days I lay in a critical condition in the bedroom of the inn. 
And then my old father came to see me. I shall never 
forget his coming. You must know that my father was 


THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 261 


devoted to me. He had an exaggerated idea of my charac¬ 
ter and abilities. My mother had died when I was a small 
boy, and my father wrapped his life round mine. He 
spoilt me in every way. I could do nothing wrong. 

I can see him now as he came shuffling into the room, 
thrusting out his thin arms, and mumbling : 

“ My little boy . . . my brave heart! ” 

He would never believe that I was more than a little 
boy, although he entrusted me with all the affairs of his 
estates. He was educating me in the law, and had a 
great idea that I was to get into the Senate. Of the origin 
of my quarrel we said nothing. I do not know how much 
he learnt, but I know that the traveller in spirits, who was 
clamouring to set the law on me, was squared. I saw or 
heard nothing more of him. It was five weeks before I 
was well enough to get about, and by that time the position 
between my father and myself became reversed. He was 
the invalid, and I was well enough to look after him. As a 
matter of fact, he ought never to have travelled. He was 
very unwell when he started, and it was only the nervous 
anxiety and his affection for me which kept him going. 
When I began to recover, he collapsed. His heart was in 
an extremely enfeebled state. 

One evening I was seated at my window. The sun was 
setting in a blaze of glory. The fruit blossoms were over, 
but the bees were busy among the irises and roses. Sud¬ 
denly I saw my father enter the garden. He was carrying 
a rug. I was about to call out to him, but somehow I felt 
constrained to watch him instead. He walked ever so 
slowly, dragging one foot after the other. He stood 
amidst the flowers, looking round. Then he appeared to 
sigh, and with great deliberation he chose a spot under a 
young birch-tree. He spread out the rug and lay himself 
down, facing the setting sun. I don’t know how it was, 
but his movements fascinated me. They were so in¬ 
credibly slow and so elaborate. It appeared to be so 


262 THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 


important to choose the exact spot. His thin, straight 
figure lay so still . . . so very still. Something seemed to 
tell me that my father was disappointed in me. It was 
the mise-en-scine of our little tragedy. I watched him 
for twenty minutes, and he did not move ; then, leaning out 
of the window, I called gently: 

“ Father. . . . Father ! ” 

And he gave no sign. I darted back into the room. I 
was frightened. I felt my heart beating. I sat trembling 
on the side of the bed. After a long interval I went back 
to the' window and again called : 

“ Father. . . . Father ! ” 

And the rigid figure remained inert. Then stealthily I 
crept down the stairs. I walked across the lawn on tiptoe. 
I touched my father’s shoulder, and he did not wake. A 
wood-pigeon cooed melodiously up above in the branches 
of an elm. The bees droned in the young flowers, and the 
sun went down. 

Three months later I was in Paris, studying for the Bar. 
My father had left me a comparatively rich man, and the 
heir to great ambitions. His name was to be perpetuated 
upon the scrolls of fame with the names of the best sons of 
France. I had not seen Denise again, and I had tried to 
dismiss her from my memory. I occupied luxurious 
quarters in the Rue Ambrosine, and I was attended by an 
old concierge and a valet named Canot. I passed my 
preliminary examination with comparative ease, and the 
work interested me. I moved in society of various sorts, 
and indulged in the orthodox pleasures of my kind. 

It was nearly three years later that I again met Denise. 

I recognised her at once. It was at Dieppe. I had failed 
in my final examinations for the Bar. Something went 
wrong at the end. I failed badly. Discouraged and 
crestfallen, I had gone away with a party of friends, 
amongst whom was Monsieur L6on Castille, the Deputy! 
He was a good friend to me. He believed in me and 


THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 263 

trusted me in my darkest hour. He insisted that there 
was a great career for me in the political world. We 
motored through Brittany and Picardy. At Dieppe we 
stayed at the Hotel de l’Univers. 

One night after dinner I strolled through the back of the 
town alone. I wanted to escape from people of my own 
world I went into a little cabaret. It was quite amusing. 
I have always contended that the humble cabarets supply 
better entertainment than the much-advertised vaudevilles 
on the English and American plan. I had no programme, 
but half-way through a roar of welcome greeted what was 
evidently a popular number. The orchestra struck up a 
bowdlerised edition of Mendelssohn’s Spring Song. The 
lights went up. The scene was set with a green cloth 
background. And suddenly the joyous figure of Spring 
itself danced before my eyes. For a second I wondered 
where I had experienced this before, and then the whole 
thing came back to me—the pleasure-garden at Couturet- 
en-bois! I sat entranced, clutching the arms of my 
fauteuil. At the end of the performance I sent round my 
card. Almost immediately I was admitted and shown to 
Mademoiselle’s dressing-room. Two other actresses were 
with her and a snuffly old man, whom I recognised as her 
father. 

Denise was examining my card quizzically, and her eyes 
were still shining with the excitement of the dance. I 
bowed, and said: 

“ Mademoiselle, pray forgive me. I had the great 
pleasure of watching you dance, three years ago, at an inn 
at Couturet-en-bois. Since then I have not had the good 
fortune to enjoy such an experience until to-night.” 

She gave a little cry and looked at me. 

" Oh, Monsieur,” she cried, " you are extremely 
gracious.” 

“ May I take the liberty,” I hastened to add, “ of con¬ 
gratulating you on your well-deserved success, and of 


264 THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 

prophesying that even greater laurels are awaiting you in 
the temples of Terpsichore.’ 1 

One of the actresses laughed at my rather stilted phrases, 
but Denise did not take her eyes from mine. Her lips were 
parted, and she smiled with friendly wonder. The old man 
snuffled at my elbow, and mumbled : 

" Some other time, Monsieur. We are engaged for to¬ 
night.” 

What did the old fool mean ? I bowed to him and tried 
to wither him with a glance. But Denise held out her 
hand. 

“ It is extremely kind of you, Monsieur,” she said. “ I 
remember Couturet-en-bois so well. I was born near 
there. We are staying at the Rue Bazin, number 47B. 
It would be so agreeable if Monsieur would call one morn¬ 
ing, and we could discuss the dear country which I love.” 

I felt myself blushing as I bowed above her hand. I 
murmured my enchantment at the invitation, and promised 
to call on the morrow. When I had closed the door I 
heard the sound of shrill laughter coming from within. But 
I knew it was not Denise who laughed. 

And on the morrow my convictions were confirmed. I 
knew that whatever feelings Denise might entertain towards 
me she would not be likely to laugh at me. In the stuffy 
little apartment of the Rue Bazin she treated me with a 
kind of surprised interest. We said very little. We were 
like old friends who had known each other for a long time, 
and suddenly discovered some new and amazing revelation 
of sympathy. She told me of her struggles and ambitions, 
and I told her mine. Her disgusting father hovered in 
the backgroundTlike^a timidjdealer at a sale of second¬ 
hand furniture. 

Three days later she was leaving for Amiens, and I 
managed to see her once again. I gave her my card. She 
was to be in Paris in the autumn at the time when I was 
putting up for the Senate. She promised to come and see 


THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 265 


me. I cannot account for my lack of enterprise at the 
time; perhaps our acquaintanceship had been too brief. 
I was very young, schooled to a meticulous recognition of 
the conventions. I may have been afraid she would 
misunderstand me, and that I was taking an unfair advan¬ 
tage of her. But I know that last morning, as we walked 
along the plague , and her eyes reflected the restless move¬ 
ments of the sea—I knew that I loved her, and there would 
never be any other woman for me. And I could not bring 
myself to say it. I let her go, the old melancholy gnawing 
at my heart. 

And that evening I experienced one of the most distres¬ 
sing and disconcerting moments of my life. 

I could not go to the cabaret. My friends had made 
other social engagements for the party, and the old tyrant 
of convention still controlled me. When I arrived back at 
the hotel just before midnight, I found old Floquet waiting 
for me in the hall. He stood up as I entered, and indicated 
that he wanted to speak to me out in the street. The old 
rascal had been drinking, without a doubt. He mumbled 
to himself and tugged at my arm. When we arrived in an 
unlighted corner of the promenade I asked him his business. 
He said something about Mademoiselle, but I could not 
hear very distinctly. He was almost incoherent. I asked 
if he had any message for me from her. He nodded and 
winked mysteriously. Suddenly he said quite clearly : 

“ The price will be a thousand francs/' 

I clutched my cane. The promenade seemed to rock. 
The lights went swinging away amongst the dim stars. I 
seized him by the coat and shook him. 

“ Pardon, pardon! ” he whined. “ Let us say five 
hundred francs.” 

He seemed to have an idea I was bargaining with him. 

I thrust him heavily against a stone wall, and rushed back 
to my hotel. When I look back upon that hour, it seems 
strange that I never doubted the old man. I believed his 


266 THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 


statement that the message from Denise was that " the 
price would be a thousand francs ! ” 

Alone in my room that night I suffered agonies of remorse 
and disillusionment. I was like a drowning man from 
whom the life-belt had been snatched away. I did not 
realise till that moment how I had builded on this hope. 
It was to be the turning-point. The sun-bathed meadows 
lay before me, and then suddenly ... all was again dark¬ 
ness. Two naked alternatives stood out before me. The 
one, to end it all for ever. The other, to compromise ; in 
other words, “ to pay the price.” I laughed cynically as I 
contemplated my choice, knowing full well I had not the 
courage to do the one, nor the cruelty to do the other. 

The following day my friends and I left for Paris. I was 
occupied for the rest of the summer on literary work and 
preparations for my political career. I addressed many 
meetings, and was congratulated by my political colleagues. 
In certain moods I certainly appeared to have the faculty of 
moving people. My essays on “ Currency ” were com¬ 
mended by no less an authority than Monsieur Duparc, of 
the Academy. Everything pointed to my failure at the 
Bar being entirely obliterated by a more brilliant and 
significant career. It would be idle to pretend that I 
dismissed Denise from my mind. On the contrary, 
thoughts of her haunted me day and night, but to an 
extent I controlled them. I steeled myself to the idea that 
I should never see her again. I closed down the shutters 
on that portion of my life. 

At the end of September I experienced a great disaster. 
It was at the last and most important political meeting I had 
to address. The hall was packed to the ceiling. My 
friend Monsieur Leon Castille occupied the chair. There 
was great excitement and enthusiasm. When I was 
called on to address the meeting after my friend had made 
a long and eloquent address, I suddenly . . . forgot! I 
could remember nothing. I stumbled. I repeated my- 



THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 267 

self. I said the wrong thing. In the middle of a sentence 
I sat down. 

I was defeated at the polls by a fairly large majority, and 
I realised that that career was closed to me. For a long 
time I could do nothing. I brooded upon my misfortune. 
I indulged in social pleasures and read considerably. All 
my friends, with the exception of Monsieur Castille, ap¬ 
peared to lose their confidence in me. I moved out to 
Passy. In December I married Madame Ostrovic. She 
was a Frenchwoman, but the widow of a Polish officer. If 
you ask me candidly, I cannot tell you to this day why we 
married. We had nothing in common at all, except that 
she was musical and I myself am something of a ’cellist. 
We drifted together in a certain social set, where perhaps 
the others bored us even more than we did each other. 
Lisette Ostrovic was older than I, frivolous, material- 
minded, and vain. In her way she was handsome, being 
tall, dark, and well-developed, with straight firm brows and 
luminous eyes. 

We went for a protracted honeymoon to Rome, Sicily, 
and Algeria. Indeed, the honeymoon was far too long. 
We stayed in Algeria for nearly six months. At the end 
of that time I can say wthout exaggeration that we hated 
each other. Poor Lisette ! I am not going to say who was 
right or who was wrong, but one day in Biskra we had a 
terrible quarrel. I need not enter into the nature of it. 
It is sufficient to say that the next morning I packed up 
and left her. She told me that she forgave me, but that 
she never wished to see me again. 

It was the end of August when I arrived in Paris. The 
city was deserted and very hot. I went back to my old 
rooms in the Rue Ambrosine. I had some vague idea of 
writing a book upon ‘ ‘ International Problems /' But when 
I arrived there I spent most of my time playing the ’cello. 
Also I found that, owing to neglect, my financial affairs had 
got into serious disorder. An attorney with whom I had 


268 THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 


entrusted large blocks of shares and the collecting of rents, 
had himself got into monetary difficulties. He came to 
me one night with tears streaming down his cheeks, and 
confessed the whole matter quite openly. He had appro¬ 
priated certain funds of mine to meet his own liabilities. 
He was in an awful muddle. Poor old Lavalliere ! I could 
not be angry with him. He was so distressed. I took 
him into the library and gave him some refreshment, and 
then I played the traumerei of Schumann to him till he 
cried again. It was all very painful. 

The following day I was sitting alone in the library, 
looking through some papers, when Canot entered. He 
said: 

“ A young lady requests an interview with you, Mon¬ 
sieur.” 

I answered idly: 

“ Show her in here, if she is at all presentable, Canot; 
for I am bored.” 

He retired, and in less than two minutes Denise was 
standing before me. 

I was so moved I could not get my voice. She bowed, 
and said: 

“ Pardon the liberty I take, Monsieur. You were good 
enough to ask me to call and see you last year. I did so, 
but I did not have the good fortune to find you in.” 

“ But, my God l ” I answered, “ they never told me. 
Did you not leave your name ? ” 

" I did not like to, Monsieur. I did not think it of any 
consequence.” 

" But, good heavens! child, don’t you know—it’s of 
tremendous consequence. Why didn’t you tell me ? 
Why didn’t you tell me? ” 

Almost blindly I groped my way towards her; then I 
sat down on a chair facing her. 

“ Denise,” I groaned, “ if I’d only known ! ” 

She did not understand me. She was a little frightened, 


THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 269 

but very wistful and sympathetic. Her dear eyes were 
fixed on me with their kind, mothering, innocent expression. 
She was more beautiful than ever. How could I have 
believed that message ? How could she be anything but 
pure and noble, trusting, sublime ? Why was I distressing 
her like this ? Why was fate so cruel ? Quite untruth¬ 
fully, but with a vague idea of excusing my behaviour, I 
blurted out: 

“ Someone told me you were married ! ” 

A smile tickled the corners of her beautiful eyes. She 
replied: 

“ Oh, no, Monsieur. Not I. On the contrary, I under¬ 
stand that I have to congratulate Monsieur.” 

I shook my head, and pandering to the mood of brutal 
frankness that came over me, I said : 

“You need not do that, Denise. My marriage is a 
failure.” 

I observed her start, and an expression of deep sympathy 
clouded her pretty face. She stood up and murmured : 

“ Oh 1 I’m sorry. I’m so—very, very sorry.” 

Quite roughly I seized her hands and said hoarsely : 

“ What of your father ? ” 

She did not resist my rough grasp, but with a tear in her 
voice she answered: 

“ My father died last year, Monsieur.” 

“ Ah ! Was he—cruel to you ? ” 

“ One does not speak ill of the dead.” 

I bowed my head. I felt ashamed. Releasing her 
hands, I choked out: 

“ So you are not married ? You are not engaged ? 
You are not in love ? Tell me everything. Tell me about 
yourself.” 

She resumed her seat on the chair, like a little bird upon 
a bough, with its wings at tension ready to fly away. She 
spoke quite collectedly: 

“ No ; I am heart-whole. I love my work. I have a 


270 THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 


good engagement in Paris. Everyone is very kind to me. 
For the rest—I should never marry a man I did not love 
and respect/’ 

Love and respect! This remark did not reconcile itself 
with the allusion to the thousand francs 1 Blind fool that 
I had been I 

“ Denise, Denise,” I murmured, “ I am lonely. Don’t 
run away from me. I want you to be my friend. I want 
you to trust me.” 

She held out her hand. 

“ Of course I trust you, Monsieur,” she said simply. 

“ Call me Anton.” 

She hesitated. Tears hovered on the brink of her eyes. 
I realised that I had been too precipitate. I released her 
hand. 

“ Or perhaps you will, one day. Let us meet again— 
to-day, to-morrow.” 

The next day we drove in the Bois. She lunched with 
me at Fan tin’s. I called at her tiny flat and took her to 
the theatre. Within a week our intimacy was complete. 

We were like children. She called me Anton and she 
trusted me, and I gave her no cause to regret her 
trust. 

There began then that period of golden bliss, the ecstasy 
of which lasts to this day. Life seemed to start for me all 
over again. Nothing that had ever happened before was 
of any account. I observed life from a new angle. I was 
swayed by new impulses, keen desires, and fervid resolu¬ 
tions. Little actions became charged with joy. We lived 
quite simply, and derived all our pleasure from the mere 
contact of each other’s presence. We met every day. She 
would call for me, in her neat dove-grey frock. She would 
say: 

“Well, Anton, are you ready ? ” 

I was eager and trembling with the thousand important 
little things I wanted to tell her since we had met on the 


THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 271 

previous day. But I would be quite calm. I would reach 
down my hat and answer : 

“ Yes, my little wood-pigeon, let us flutter away among 
the trees.” 

And we would stroll away side by side, peeping at each 
other, furtively touching each other’s hands. We would 
sit under the trees in the Luxembourg, and she would tell 
me all the latest gossip of the theatre, and the colour her 
new frock was to be, and what the maitre de ballet thought 
of her new dance, and where quite the nicest omelettes in 
Picardy are to be obtained, and how she was going to help 
her dresser’s little boy, who was a consumptive, get into a 
sanatorium in the South, and how careful I must be not to 
stand in a draught when I called for her at the theatre ; 
and it was all so very, very—important. 

It was the end of September when I told her that I 
loved her. It was in my own room in the Rue Ambrosine. 
We sat facing each other, and suddenly I took her hands 
and I held them over my eyes ; and I said : 

“ Denise, what are we going to do ? I love you.” 

I felt her hands trembling, and she stood up. She put 
her arms around my head and kissed me on the brow. 

“ Yes,” she whispered hoarsely; “I know ... I 
know.” 

I clung to her hands. I dared not look at her. I re¬ 
peated helplessly 

“ What are we going to do ? ” 

I felt her bosom heaving. At length she raised my head 
and looked into my eyes. 

“ Anton darling, you know I love you,” she answered, 
“ and I want to do what is best for you. I want to make 
you happy. You do not love your wife, and she does not 
love you. It cannot be good to go on like that. At the 
same time I could not be content to be just your mistress. 
Oh, my dear, let us just go on being good friends. Per¬ 
haps, one day—who knows ? ” 


272 THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 


I kissed her then for the first time, and we clung to each 
other, bewildered by the sudden vortex of emotion in which 
we were swirled. It was Denise at last who said : 

“ We must not go on like this, Anton. This must be 

the last time. I could not bear it-” 

In October my wife returned to Paris. She wrote to 
me from Passy a formal letter concerning business matters. 
She expressed no wish to see me. In effect she demanded 
a settlement. She had apparently been living considerably 
above her means. When I had satisfied her and settled up 
affairs with my defaulting attorney I found myself a com¬ 
paratively poor man. I moved to humbler quarters and 
sold the bulk of my furniture. My friend, M. Castille, was 
good enough to find me an appointment in the Ministry of 
Justice, but the salary was small. 

It cannot be said that this change in my fortunes seriously 
affected my spirits. On the contrary, I almost welcomed 
it. I was so consumed with my love for Denise that 
nothing else mattered, and I was relieved that my wife 
showed no disposition to see me again. I told everything 
to Denise, and she was very loyal and sympathetic. 

“ So long as I have you they may take every stick of 
furniture,” she said. 

“ Little one,” I said, “ everything will be well for us. I 
know my wife, and I know that before long there will be 
someone else. And then I shall be free——” 

I was right in my prophecy with regard to the fact, but 
wrong with regard to the time. It is strange how a pro¬ 
traction or prolongation of time may upset the best-laid 
plans. In war, in peace, in love, time is an all-powerful 
factor. In this duel of hatred it was my wife who gave 
way in the main essential, but she defeated me. For it 
was nearly four years before I received the formal intima¬ 
tion that she was living with Henri Martin, and that divorce 
proceedings were easily negotiable. And in the mean¬ 
while- No, no, no ; I would not for one instant have 


THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 273 


you imagine that Denise did not remain loyal to me ; I 
would not have you doubt her purity and sincerity. Four 
years l Day in and day out she was my dear and true 
friend. She stuck to her faith, and to her principle. She 
would not marry a man she did not love and respect . Even 
in my darkest days, when I was dismissed from the Ministry 
of Justice, and reached the bed-rock of my capital, she 
believed in me and stuck to me. Even when I lost situation 
after situation; when M. Castille deserted me ; when I 
pawned my furniture ; when I wandered footsore through 
the streets of Paris, searching for employment, she—she 
was the one light in my darkness. And when everything 
seemed finished, when I lay alone in the darkness under 
the fever, she it was who nursed me, she it was who bought 
the food which kept my soul and body together—she, the 
dancing-girl, out of her hard-earned savings ! 

Four years l Oh God, if it had not been so long \ If at 
our first meeting I had had the pluck, the courage of my 
impulse 1 She might have saved me from myself. It was 
time which destroyed me. Time and the tyranny of habit. 
And if in the end she left me for another, I have no one to 
blame but that other self of mine, which is even now stirring 
the milk-white liquid in the glass. Only the little glass is 
left me. The little glass in which I see the reflection of 
that drawn face. Shall I ever forget that expression in her 
eyes when she first began to suspect ? the strained anxiety 
in her voice as she whispered 

u Anton . . . Anton, what is that ... in the little 

glass ? ” , , 

So stir ; stir gently. Let me once more peep through 
the little window of the night. Nothing else is left. It 
was through the little glass I found Denise, and through 
the little glass I lost her. It was through the little glass I 
lost my father, and his fortune, and his fair name. It was 
through the little glass I found and lost my wife. It was 
through the little glass I lost my career, my position, my 


274 THE LITTLE WINDOW OF THE NIGHT 


friends . . . everything. And it is only through the little 
glass that Denise will come back to me to-night across the 
ages. Thirty years ago 1 And she will be still vivid and 
young, fresh and gay, in her fantastic frock, with dark-red 
poppies in her hair. . . . She will hold out her arms and 
say: 

“ Well, Anton, are you ready ? ” 

Am I ready ? Oh, God! . . . Ay, the musicians have 
already arrived. I hear the slow Spanish dance; the 
carnival is commencing. And no one at the carnival will 
dance like my Denise. And I shall hold her in my arms, 
and she will be mine, mine, mine I 

The particles of dust are drifting through the pale shaft 
of sunlight; the shadows are deepening in the meagre 
room. . . . The stove is cold. Perhaps soon all will be 
darkness . . . darkness and silence; or vivid lights and 
the movements of dancing feet. Denise ! .. . Denise ! 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


Talent is an elusive quantity. It never does to despair 
concerning the lack of it. Some people will dig, and dig, 
and dig, and find nothing, and then suddenly—perhaps 
when they are reaching middle-age—they will discover 
that they can do something as well as, if not better than, 
anyone else. . 

It cannot be said that up to the age of twenty-six Freddie 
Oppincott had shown any particular ability. Indeed, he 
was the butt of his family, as he had been of his school. He 
had tried seven different professions and had foresworn 
them all, or perhaps it would be truer to say that the 
professions had foresworn him. In spite of all this, Freddie 
was an incurable optimist. There was no holding him. 
He lived with his father, his elder brother John, who ragged 
him mercilessly, and his two sisters, Emma and Jane, who 
mellowed their ragging with a genuine streak of affection. 
Fortunately for Freddie, his father was a fairly well-to-do 
coal merchant. The family lived at Highgate. Mr. 
Oppincott had long since given up all hope of Freddie 
accomplishing anything, except perhaps marrying a rich 
girl. He was by way of being good-looking, and he could 
talk. Talking was certainly his one talent. But the trouble 
is that to exploit talking profitably you must be able to talk 
well. And that could not be said of Freddie Oppincott. 

At the time when this story commences he had been in a 
state of unemployment for two months. And then one 
morning he sprang the latest bomb-shell on the family. 
He announced that he was going to be a private detective l 
275 


270 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


Even Mr. Oppincott was forced to laugh. And Emma 
and Jane said: 

“ Don’t be so utterly absurd, Freddie.” 

But the matter was abeady a partial fait accompli. He 
had taken a little room, described as an office, in Blooms¬ 
bury. 

And in the morning paper was an advertisement worded 
as follows: 

Must hubby really stay at the office till midnight ? 

Is it really mother that wifey spends the week-ends 
with ? What is your partner always going to Paris 
for ? If in doubt on all these problems, consult 
Pimpleton’s Detective Agency, 9 , Eurydice Street, 
Bloomsbury. Pimpleton never fails. 

Freddie announced that he was Pimpleton. He was 
quite impervious to the shafts of derision hurled at him by 
the other members of the family. Having had a good deal 
of time on his hands during the last two months, he had 
been reading detective stories. His mind had become 
obsessed with visions of himself in a cloth cap (with ear 
flaps), tracking down murderers, discovering the duchess’s 
stolen tiara, bringing the faithless to justice. 

“ Don’t you make any mistake,” he said. “ I'm not 
such a fool as I look.” 

“No; but even then there’s a wide margin to fill up,” 
replied John. And Emma said sternly, in that delightfully 
candid manner that characterizes family life : 

“ Freddie, you have got every quality which a detective 
should not have, and you’ve not got a single quality that 
he should have. You’ve no perception, no logic, no reason¬ 
ing power, and, moreover, you talk too much. You give 
yourself away every time you open your mouth. Don’t 
be a complete ass.” 

And Jane said: 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


277 

“ Why don’t you write detective stories ? It’s much 
easier, and far less dangerous.” 

And Papa Oppincott said : 

“ I must be off. Where are my boots ? Don't smoke 
too many cigarettes, Freddie, sitting in your chamber 
waiting for the Countess to call.” 

And they all departed to their various vocations. 

It would be painful to record the sarcasm, gibes, and 
derision to which Freddie was subjected during the ensuing 
ten days. It reached a degree of cruelty that could only 
happen amongst people who are really fond of each other. 

Freddie went out and bought a cloth cap (with ear flaps). 
Then he hired a roll-top desk, and littered it with papers, 
ink, and pens. And then—a really bright inspiration— 
several cardboard files which he labelled conspicuously, 
“ The Lord Harridge Case,” “ Mr. Jocelyn Mountjoy and 
others,” “ The Weir Case,” and so on. 

He purchased many tins of cigarettes, and he sat at his 
desk all day long, waiting for answers to his advertisement, 
which appeared regularly in several daily papers. He 
smoked cigarettes and read detective stories. He always 
had a drawer open so that if anyone called he could slip 
the book away. He had a shrewd suspicion that real 
detectives didn’t read detective stories. 

It was on the tenth day that the astonishing thing 
happened. He had gone out to lunch and was feeling a 
trifle discouraged concerning his enterprise. On returning 
to his “ office ” he found a dark, foreign-looking gentleman 
reading his notice printed on the door : “ Out at lunch, 
back in twenty minutes.” 

The foreign gentleman started at. sight of him and ex¬ 
claimed : 

“ Mr. Pimpleton ? ” 

“ That’s me,” said Freddie. 

“ I wish to see you urgently.” 


278 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


“ Come inside, Mr.—er-” 

They went inside, and Freddie smuggled away Jim 
Slooth’s Last Case just in time. They both sat down, and 
Freddie said: 

“ Well, now, what can I do for you ? ” 

The mysterious visitor looked furtively around. Then 
he said confidentially : 

“ You, I believe, handled ze case concerning ze stolen 
bonds for Count Tisza ? ” 

“ No.” 

“What! But my sister understood from the Baron 
himself on the telephone this morning that you-” 

“ Oh, well, perhaps I did,” said Freddie, realizing he 
had made a bloomer. “ I have so many cases, you see, 
I’m apt to forget.” And he glanced significantly at his 
labelled files. 

The foreigner glanced at the files, too, and seemed 
satisfied. Then he leant forward and tapped Freddie’s 
knee. 

“ It does not concern that, anyway. It was only a 
recommendation. My sister, the Countess Sforza, is in 
great trouble. Listen 1 ” 

Fame at last! Freddie listened. 

“ Doubtless you know of her by reputation ? Hein ? 
Well, she has the beautiful place at Steeplehurst, in Sussex. 
This week she entertains a small house-party—seven guns. 
The guests arrived on Saturday last. On Sunday evening 
she goes to dress for dinner. Her pearl necklace, worth 
thousands of pounds, is missing. A search is made, but 
ze guests are not informed. Zey have all announce to 
stop one veek. All ze servants has been searched, and 
zeir boxes and properties. A detective arrive from 
Scotland Yard on ze Monday afternoon. He passes as a 
guest—a Mr. Battesley. Zis is Wednesday afternoon. So 
far no clue, nozing discovered.” 

“ Perhaps it was a burglar,” said Freddie, brightly. 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


279 


“ Zere is no sign of burglary. No one has entered ze 
house unknown, or left it. Ze guests still remain. My 
sister—she is in despair. She rings up Count Tisza, an 
old friend. ‘ Go to Pimpleton,’ he says ; ‘ he'll solve ze 
mystery for you.’ My sister bade me come to town at 
once to try to persuade you to return mit me. Zere is a 
train at five-ten vich gets us down in comfortable time for 
dinner/' 

“ All right, Mr.—er—Forcer ? ” 

“ My name is Baron Hunyadi Sergius Szychylimski.” 

“ Oh, really! I see. Well, I’ll just have to go home 
first/’ 

“ Home 1 ” 

“ Yes. I must go to Highgate and tell Dad and the 
others, and then pack up. I suppose you wear evening- 
dress for dinner down there, don’t you ? ” 

The baron seemed a little mystified. Perhaps he had 
misunderstood the English of this famous detective. He 
said: 

“ I will meet you on ze train, zen, Mr. Pimpleton. And 
—one vord 1—my sister suggest zat you come as a private 
gentleman, not a sportsman. Zat would give you ze 
excuse to hang about ven ze others are out. She suggest 
you come as a professor or scientist, or explorer. If zere 
is any special branch of science you have exceeded at or— 
doubtless you have travelled a lot. Vat do you suggest ? 
Vat is your special genius ? ” 

Freddie considered for some moments, then he said : 

“ Well, I’m not bad at snooker-pool.” 

“ Snookerpool! ” The Baron turned the word over in 
his brain. Snookerpool sounded distinctly erudite. He 
was too polite to make enquiries. “ Goot, zen l We vill 
say ze eminent authority on Snookerpool. What name 
shall we announce ? ” 

“ My name’s Oppincott. I mean—why not call me 
Mr. Oppincott ? ” 


280 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


“Mr. Oppincott, se Snookerpoolist. Goot! ” 

Luckily for Freddie, when he got home neither his father 
nor John had returned from business. The two girls were 
there, and he announced with magnificent calm that he 
was called away on a case to recover the Countess Forcer’s 
pearl necklace. The girls for a long time thought he was 
fooling. It was not until he had commandeered John’s 
evening dress, shoes, collar, tie, and splutter brush and 
packed these things that they began to take him seriously. 

He caught the train by the skin of his teeth. He would, 
indeed, have missed it, but for the fact that the Baron was 
waiting for him feverishly by the booking-office, with two 
first-class tickets already taken. They scrambled into the 
train. 

The journey down was uneventful. Freddie talked all 
the time, but it was difficult to know how far the Baron was 
impressed. He wanted to talk about the case, but he got 
little opportunity. He only managed to impress one thing 
on Freddie. He was not to make himself known to the 
other detective—Mr. Battesley. The Countess was dis¬ 
appointed that Mr. Battesley had so far not even got a clue. 
Pimpleton was to work on his own lines, and of course he 
was to have free run of the house. 

When they arrived at Steeplehurst Towers they found 
two tired colonels drinking cock-tails in the lounge hall. The 
rest of the party were dressing for dinner. The Baron 
introduced Freddie to the two colonels as “ Mr. Oppincott, 
ze eminent authority on Snoddlepole.” It was fortunate 
that he had forgotten the word snooker-pool, because if 
the matter had been put to the test either of the tired 
colonels could have given Freddie fifty per cent, on any 
game played on the green baize. They regarded him 
languidly, either too polite or too bored to inquire what 
Snoddlepole was. 

The Countess was very anxious to see Mr. Pimpleton, 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


281 


and he was ushered up to her boudoir at once. He felt a 
little dubious about removing his cloth cap (with ear 
flaps). No detective looks the real thing without such. It 
was only the questioning and rather challenging glances of 
the two colonels in the hall which prompted him eventually 
to leave it behind. 

The Countess was small and dark and agitated. The 
loss of her pearl necklace seemed to have driven her to a 
frenzy of lapidary display. She appeared to be wearing 
the remainder of her jewellery, in case that too was stolen. 
Her knowledge of English was far more limited than that 
of her brother. She began by saying : 

“ I spik English bad. My brozzer tell you of the lost 
pearl. Zis man, Battesley, he find nozing. It ees to you 
I look now. Zese guests depart Saturday. Zis is Vednes- 
day. Ze house is disposed to you. Inquire, look, search 
as you vill. One vord also. Ze Baron and I, ve know of 
zis. No von else. Not even my daughter.” 

“ Righto,” said Freddie. 

She came up to him and said, tensely : 

“ Listen. In ze short vile ze bell gongs to dinner. 
You gom to dinner ? Or no ? You stay here, perhaps, 
search ze guests’ effects vile we hold zem at dinner ? Per¬ 
haps you have dinner after by yourself. Hein ? ” 

By the base of the hall staircase Freddie’s nostrils had 
been assailed by an aroma that might have been roast 
pheasant, or it might have been roast quail. He was 
hungry. He replied: 

“No, I think I’ll start making my depositions after 
dinner, Countess. Work like mine can’t be done on an 
empty stomach.” 

He did not quite know what “ depositions ” meant, but 
it was a word he had frequently come across in Jim Slooth’s 
Last Case. It apparently impressed the Baron too, for 
he repeated, “ he makes depositions,” and he translated 
it into the rummy lingo they spoke between them. The 
T 


282 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


Countess appeared satisfied, and he was allowed to retire 
to his room and to put on John’s evening clothes. 

When he found himself seated at the dining-table, after 
having been introduced to the company as Mr. Toddingpot, 
the eminent authority on Snoddlepole, he rejoiced that he 
had made this decision. In the first place, the dinner was 
unbelievably good. He had never imagined such foods 
and wines existed. In the second place, he found himself 
sitting next to the daughter of the house. She was an 
extremely pretty girl, with dark, mischievous eyes, and 
she spoke English like a native. (He found out afterwards 
that she had been educated at Girton.) He found her an 
enchanting listener. There were nearly twenty guests 
seated round the table, and the noise of conversation was 
so loud that he almost had to shout into her ear. They 
were eating red mullet, when she suddenly said : 

“I’m most thrilled that you are an authority on Snoddle¬ 
pole, Mr. Toddingpot.” 

“ Oppincott is my name,” said Freddie, in order to gain 
time. 

“ Of course. I’m so sorry. By the way, do you consider 
the Einstein theory is going to affect the practice of 
Snoddlepole ? ” 

It was obvious that this was a dangerous woman. He 
was not going to enjoy himself so much as he had hoped. 
The only way to treat this onslaught was to counter it 
by asking questions of his own. He said, “ No ” rapidly, 
and almost in the same breath : 

“ Are you Oxford or Cambridge ? ” 

“ Cambridge.” 

“ Good 1 I’m so glad. So am I. Can you float ? ” 

“ What ? Companies ? ” 

“ You’re pulling my leg, Miss Forcer.” 

“ You’re asking for it, Mr. Hottentot.” 

There was a lot of fun in this girl. If she would only 
talk sensibly, about lawn tennis, for instance, or music- 
halls, or tobacco, he could have a good time with her. 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


283 


He found himself eating pheasant when he suddenly 
remembered that he was a detective. He had to discover 
which of these guests had stolen the pearl necklace. He 
glanced round the table. A more unthieving-looking 
crowd had surely never foregathered. They all looked 
well-off, well-fed, and slightly vacant, entirely innocent of 
anything except the knowledge of what is done or what is 
not done. Stealing pearl necklaces is not done. No, 
there was only one saturnine-looking individual present at 
all. He was seated in the far corner. 

“ Who is that chap over there ? ” Freddie asked his 
neighbour. 

“ That’s Mr. Battesley.” 

The real detective l That was no go, then. But still, 
you never could tell. A sleek exterior sometimes concealed 
an itching palm. That wasn’t right. He was mixing things 
a bit, especially wines. He would have to keep a clear 
head for the great work in front of him. Depositions, eh ? 

When the dinner was over and the ladies had retired, 
Freddie realized that this was a good opportunity for him 
to commence his work. He went stealthily out of the 
dining-room. He had reached the foot of the stairs when 
he heard a quiet voice behind say : 

“ Mr. Oppincott 1 ” 

He turned. It was Battesley, the detective. An 
uncomfortable feeling crept over him. He had been told 
not to have anything to do with his rival. But there was 
a sense of power about this man a little difficult to ignore. 
The detective said: 

“ May I have a word with you in the billiard-room ? ” 

Freddie hesitated. 

“ Well, I don’t mind playing you fifty up, but I’ve got 
some work to do.” 

“ Yes, yes, of course,” said Battesley, and led the way 
in. Having shut the door, he turned to Freddie and said : 

“ I have received information that you are a private 
detective that has been sent for at the Countess’s direction. 


284 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


Here is my card. You know my mission here. The 
Countess is a very highly-strung woman, a little impetuous. 
I think it will be to the advantage of all parties concerned, 
and most likely to be conducive of results if we work 
together.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” said Freddie, weakly. 

“I am quite prepared to place at your disposal all the 
information I have so far acquired,” continued the detective, 
ignoring Freddie’s protest. “ The Countess was wearing 
the necklace on the evening of the twelfth. On retiring 
to bed she locked the necklace up in her jewel cabinet 
On the following evening, when she went to put it on, she 
found it to be missing.” 

“ Well, I never ! ” said Freddie. 

“ The key of the cabinet she kept in her chatelaine, 
which she carried about with her all day. No one could 
have entered her bedroom during the night. The doors 
were locked. The key must have been taken from her 
chatelaine during the day and replaced. The Countess 
says that, so far as she can remember, the chatelaine was 
never out of her sight. Of course, she put it down many 
times, on the piano for instance, and on the luncheon-table, 
but she never observed anyone touch it. It must have been 
done very deftly by someone who was near to her and very 
intimate.” 

“ Fancy 1 ” 

“ I have made a careful inquiry into the character and 
record of everyone of the servants, and also of the guests. 
One of the under-gardeners has a bad record, but he was 
never seen to approach the house all day. There is no 
one else upon whom one would dare to cast the slightest 
suspicion. But in order not to run any risks I have; 
unbeknown to them, searched all their rooms, luggage, and 
effects. It seems probable that, if one of the guests had 
taken it, he would have made some excuse to get away as 
quickly as possible. But no one has intimated any desire 
to leave before next Saturday.” 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


285 


“ It’s extraordinary, isn’t it ? ” said Freddie. “ Perhaps 
she dropped it somewhere. Did you look under the bed ? ” 

“ Now you are a young man,” the detective continued. 
“ And I observed that you were not altogether repulsed 
in your attentions to the daughter of the house, Miss Olga 
Szychyllmski. It is there that I think we may stumble 
on some solution.” 

“ The daughter l You don’t mean to say that you think 
she pinched it ? ” 

“You may have observed that the Countess and her 
daughter are hardly on speaking terms. There has been 
a row. The daughter wishes to marry a profligate young 
man named Julius Stinnie. The mother won’t hear of it. 
She has not even informed her daughter about the necklace. 
This young man has been forbidden the house, but he haunts 
the neighbourhood. The daughter meets him clandestinely.’' 

“ Well, you do surprise me l ” exclaimed Freddie. “ I 
thought she seemed a top-hole girl—a bit too clever, 
perhaps.” 

“ I am, of course, working entirely on a supposition. 
The young man has no money and is a rout Nevertheless, 
he is well-connected. He would probably be able to dispose 
of a pearl necklace among some of his associates. Whether 
he has been able to persuade the daughter to connive at the 
theft remains to be seen. Whether it was she who actually 
removed the necklace and passed it on to him remains to 
be proved, but no one has more intimate knowledge of the 
Countess’s movements and habits, or an easier access to 
her person. I have tried to make friends with her, but she 
repulses me. That is where I think you might succeed. 
She has obviously taken to you. You could keep her 
under observation. Take her out on the river, pump her, 
make love to her if you like.” 

Oh, if only John could hear all this! He, the despised 
Freddie, being appealed to by a real detective, and urged 
to make love to the daughter of a countess l A glow of 
manliness crept over him. He wanted to say . 


286 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


“Yes, we professionals must stick together. I will 
sacrifice myself. The girl shall be made love to.” 

And yet he did not like Battesley. There was something 
hard, cruel, and forbidding about the man. It seemed 
shabby to make love to a girl in order to worm secrets out 
of her. It seemed shabbier to get someone else to do it 
for you. The manliness wavered. 

“ I will think over what you say, Mr. Battesley,” and 
he bowed in quite a dignified manner and left the room. 

In the morning he wondered whether the other detective 
had told him the story to put him off the scent. If he went 
punting about the river with Olga he would be out of the 
way, and the coast would be clear for Battesley, to do as 
he liked. Ha, ha l No, he was not going to be taken in 
like that. He went down to breakfast determined to act 
on his own. But how? He hadn’t the faintest idea 
how to begin. Thank goodness, Battesley had searched 
all these people’s private rooms and effects. It would 
save him from a most distasteful task. 

After breakfast the Countess sent for him. 

“ Veil ? ” she said. “You make some discover ? Yes ?” 

“Not yet,” replied Freddie. “I am making my 
depositions. I have several people under close observa¬ 
tion.” 

“ No clue yet ? ” 

“ Not yet ? ” 

“ Veil, the house is disposed to you. It is urgent. I 
trust you.” 

“ I’m sure, Countess, you’ll have no cause to ultimately 
regret it,” said Freddie, splitting his infinitive with a magni¬ 
ficent gesture. 

In the garden he found Olga among the phlox and 
campion. She looked wickedly attractive. 

“ Good-morning, Mr. Oddinglot,” she said. “ Come for 
a little punt up the reach, will you ? ” 

Now this was just what he had decided not to do. It 
was what Battesley wanted him to do—to get rid of him. 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


287 


His duty was to hang about the house and search for the 
pearl necklace. Great bumble bees hung heavily on the 
phlox. The air was filled with their droning, and with the 
song of birds, and the distant lowing of cattle. 

“ I should love to,” he said. 

In half-an-hour’s time they were gliding up a backwater. 
Fortunately he could punt—not very well, but sufficiently 
well to get the boat along. He slowed up among the reeds 
and rested. 

“ Now I want you to tell me all about Snoddlepole,” she 
said. 

Freddie lit a cigarette. 

“ As a matter of fact,” he replied, after a lengthy pause, 
“ I’d rather not talk about Snoddlepole. When Fm on a 
holiday I like to get away from it.” 

“ Are you on a holiday ? ” she said. Olga was one of 
those ingenuous girls who exude omniscience, or if there is 
something they do not know, you are not going to find out. 
Her dark eyes mocked him. 

“ I’m having a very nice holiday, thank you,” he said, 
simply. 

She laughed. “ Tell me all about yourself. You amuse 
me.” 

This was the kind of invitation Freddie liked. Without 
any preamble he told her ah about Dad and John and Emma 
and Jane, about his own chequered career right up to the 
time when he became a detective. 

“ And what are you doing now ? ” she asked. 

“ I’m resting on my punt pole,” he answered. 

Oh, very clever, Master Freddie! He was feeling 
extremely happy and pleased with himself. 

“ This is all very interesting,” the girl said. “ Only, 
considering what a lot of things you’ve crowded into your 
brilliant career, I don’t see how you could have found time 
to become an authority of Snoddlepole.” 

“ Look here,” answered Freddie, “ that’s all nonsense— 
it’s a mistake. I don’t even know what Snoddlepole is.” 


288 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


The punt shook with the girl’s laughter. 

“ What I want to know is—what are you doing here ? 
Mother doesn’t know you. Uncle doesn’t know you. 
None of the guests knows anything about you. Uncle went 
up and fetched you from town, and now you don’t even 
know what Snoddlepole is ! ” 

She was too clever for him. She was manoeuvring to 
defend her lover, of course, the man who had stolen the 
necklace. 

“ Do you want me to go away ? ” he said, not without 
bitterness. 

“ Oh, no. I like you. It’s jolly to have someone 
really young and innocent about the place.” 

Little devil l “ I think we’ll push on a bit.” 

They did not get back till lunch-time ; the girl, mis¬ 
chievous and provocative; the boy, bewildered and 
fascinated. 

“ I’ll play you at tennis this afternoon,” she said. 

“ She doesn’t mean to leave me alone,” he thought. 
“ Oh, well-” 

After lunch the Countess sent for him. 

“Veil, have you any clue yet ? ” 

“Not yet, Countess, but I have every hope.” 

“ Is there anyone you suspect ? ” 

" I’d rather not say for the moment.” 

“ Bien I ” 

Battesley nodded at him approvingly as he entered the 
luncheon-room. Most of the elder men were out shooting 
and would not be back until the evening. During the 
course of lunch Freddie decided that Battesley was right. 
It was this girl’s lover who had stolen the necklace. Her 
whole manner indicated it. She suspected him of being 
there as a spy and she was going to look after him. Instead 
of him spying upon her, she was going to spy upon him. 
She had him in her clutches. Well, he wouldn’t play 
tennis with her. He would refuse. He would begin to 
make his own researches. But-? It seemed much 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


289 


more difficult to be a detective than the story-books had 
led one to suspect. This man Battesley apparently worked 
on a system. He would go up to his own room after lunch 
and think the whole thing out. 

When the rest arose from the table he avoided Olga’s 
glance, slid out of the room, and dashed upstairs and locked 
his door. He then remembered that he had never sent a 
postcard home, as promised. So he wrote, saying that he 
had arrived, that he had not yet traced the Countess’s 
necklace, but that he was getting together some important 
information and hoped to trace the thief by Saturday, 
when he returned. (He afterwards put this postcard on 
the hall table with some other letters for the post.) 

He had just written his postcard when there was a 
knock at the door. He opened it. It was Olga. She said 
demurely: 

“ Oh, Mr. Loppinott, I’m so sorry to disturb you, but a 
young couple have just arrived and want to play tennis. 
I do wish you would come and make up a four. There is 
no one else.” 

What was he to do ? He played tennis till tea-time. 
The young couple departed, and then Olga said : 

“ Now, wouldn’t you like to take me on the river again ? ” 

No. A thousand times, no 1 She touched him ever so 
gently on the forearm. 

“ You had better put on your sweater. It sometimes 
gets suddenly chilly in the evening.” 

A starling was making an awful to-do up in the apple 
tree. 

“ Right. Oh, thanks awfully. Of course I would. 

When he found himself once more among the reeds up 
that backwater, and Olga was playfully letting the stream 
trickle through her white fingers, he knew that the reason 
he wanted to avoid her was that if it were true that her 
lover had stolen the necklace, he didn’t want to be the 
one instrumental in discovering the fact. He didn’t want 
to be associated with anything that would give her pain. 


290 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


Indeed, he wanted to bring her joy and happiness. He 
wanted to take her in his arms and say : 

“ I love you. I love you. I love you.” Or words to 
that effect. 

Her face caught the reflected glitter from the water. 
She was wearing most exquisite open-work silk stockings. 

“ I’m not cut out for a detective,” he thought to himself. 

“ Well, my pensive friend ? ” she said, after he had been 
gazing at her abstractedly for at least five minutes. 

“ Life’s a rummy go,” he said, dolefully. 

‘ ‘ It is, indeed,” agreed she, eagerly. ‘ ‘ Your perspicacity 
leaves me breathless.” 

As though accepting that as a challenge, Freddie stumbled 
across the punt and sat in the seat facing her. Her eyes 
were watching him questioningly. He took his courage 
in both hands and both her hands. He said : 

“ I shan’t want to go back on Saturday.” 

She made no attempt to withdraw hers. She looked at 
him quizzically. 

“ Won’t you ? But your mission will be accomplished.” 

“ What mission ? ” 

“ Oh, I forgot you’re just here on a holiday, Mr. Polyglot.” 

“ Be serious with me for five minutes. This fellow you’re 
. engaged to-” 

“ What’s that ? ” 

She withdrew her hands. Her eyes narrowed. 

“ I know all about it. You’re going to marry that chap 
Julius Stinnie.” 

“ Who told you that ? ” 

“ It wouldn’t be fair to say.” 

The expression of her face suddenly changed. She spoke 
rather bitterly. 

“ Since it seems to interest you, I’ll tell you the truth. 
I’m not going to. It’s off. I found out things that—well, 
anyway, it’s off.” 

Freddie’s mentality received various shocks. Firstly, 
a shock of exultation. If Julius Stinnie was off, why 



FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


291 


should not Freddie be on ? Secondly, but a much milder 
shock, a shock to his professional vanity as a detective. 
He was on the wrong track. He was doing just what 
Battesley wanted him to do—wasting two days making 
love to the daughter of the house, and it was all on a false 
scent. He registered a mental vow of revenge against 
Battesley. He must give this girl up and return to the 
fray. 

He certainly did return, but it was nearly dark when the 
punt glided into the boat-house. The lawn was damp with 
evening dew, and the girl’s hair was all awry. 

The position, he now realized, would soon be getting 
desperate. After dinner another bright idea. He asked 
the Baron if he might see him and the Countess alone. 
Naturally. They received him in the boudoir. 

“ Please show me the key of the jewel-case at once, will 
you ? ” 

The Countess produced it. He turned it over, held it 
up to the light, and repeated, “ Ah l ” three times. The 
Countess was very impressed. 

" Veil ? ” 

“ I can say nothing more to-night. To-morrow I hope 
to spring a surprise-” 

“ Vat ees dat ? ” 

“ He springs a surprise to-morrow,” explained the Baron. 

Freddie appeared to be thinking profoundly. He said 
“ Ah! ” once more, and left the room without another 
word. 

“ This will be difficult to follow up,” he thought, as he 
went downstairs, not having the faintest idea what his 
various “ Ahs ! ” implied. 

He found Olga in the drawing-room with the rest of the 
party. She was in a high-spirited, ragging mood. He 
could not detach her from the rest. Her mocking laughter 
jarred him. He did not understand her. She was never 
serious for a moment. It was the first time he had met a 


292 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


girl of this kind. He was bewitched by her, and at the 
same time she made him feel wretched. Before the others 
she went out of her way to make him look a fool. And yet 
on the river- 

He retired early and lay in bed trying to evolve “ deposi¬ 
tions.” If only the Countess didn’t keep on demanding 
clues 1 In the stories he had read they were usually foot¬ 
prints, or hairpins, or tobacco pouches. In any case, 
something solid. On the morrow he simply must find a 
clue. It would be his last chance. He slept at last, 
dreaming of the perfume of dark hair and of some very 
expensive and mysterious scent. 

The next day was finer than ever. A thin mist hung 
over everything, presaging heat to come. After break¬ 
fast the Countess sent for him as usual. He experienced 
the familiar sensation of the schoolboy being hauled up 
before the headmaster for not learning his prep. 

“ Veil ? ” 

How sick he was of it 1 

“ To-day I expect to find a clue,” he said. 

“ He expects to find a clue,” echoed the Baron. 

The Countess was looking annoyed and a little suspicious. 

“ To-morrow they go,” she snapped. 

“You may rely upon me, Countess,” wheedled Mr. 
Freddie, his mind concentrated on a last day on the river. 

But Olga didn’t want to go on the river. She took him 
for a walk over a common. He was deliciously happy. 
Away from the others she was quite amenable and rather 
more than friendly. She did not object to his squeezing 
her hand, putting his arm round her waist, and on two 
occasions kissing her. Beyond that there seemed to be a 
kind of blank wall. He could not think of the right thing 
to say. She never attempted to talk to him seriously. 
She was amusing herself with him. 

It took Freddie the whole morning to realize this, and 
when he did he felt desperate. He was madly in love 
with her, and she was as intangible as a myth. 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


293 


Lunch was a dismal meal. He almost made up his mind 
to confess to the Countess and to return to town forthwith. 
But the lunch was a very excellent lunch, and afterwards 
he felt fortified. He strolled out into the rose-garden, 
sat on a bench in the sun, and smoked. It seemed a shame 
to have to leave all this. That wretched Countess with her 
clues ! He simply must find something. 

Suddenly he saw her coming in his direction through the 
pergola. He looked desperately around. The only solid 
thing that caught his eye was a small garden trowel. He 
stooped and picked it up. As she approached him, he 
went up to her and handed her the trowel. 

“ Look, Countess/" he said. “ I have found a clue.” 

And without giving her time to ask questions, he hurried 
away in the direction of the house. He found Olga near 
the boat-house. 

“ Come/’ he said, “ for the last time. Down the river. 
You must.” 

She was carried away by his decisiveness, and in a short 
while they were gliding away down the river. And they 
had a very pleasant afternoon. Pleasant, in that youth is 
pleasant, and a sunny day. And dalliance is pleasant 
under a willow tree with the water musically lapping the 
sides of a punt. And it is pleasant to hold hands and to 
imagine that one is in love—if only for an hour. It is 
pleasant to believe that; life is perpetuated in a gesture. 
To the girl it was a pleasant pastime. To the young man 
a desperate spiritual adventure. He knew that nothing 
would come out of it, and he didn’t care. He saw himself 
clear and whole for the first time. During the most 
intriguing moments of this new ecstasy he was registering 
a vow to improve himself, to work, to learn, to study. 
He would go back and begin life anew. 

“ I love you so much that I am going to give you up,” 
he said. 

“ Before you talk of giving up, you must first postulate 
possession,” she answered. 


294 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


He didn’t know the meaning of the word “ postulate,” 
so he kissed her lips, presumably in order to close them. 

He decided to catch the six-fifteen back to town, and 
so, in spite of her protests, he manfully guided the punt 
back to Steeplehurst boat-house in time for tea. On 
arriving at the house, one of the servants told him that the 
Baron wished to see him in the rose-garden. 

“ My doom 1 ” he thought. However, he went eagerly 
enough thither, anxious to get the whole thing over. He 
saw the Baron in conversation with an old man with white 
hair. As he entered the garden the Baron exclaimed : 

“ Oh, Mr. Oppincott, Count Tisza himself has come over 
to see us.” 

The old Count came forward and then started at sight 
of Freddie. 

“ But this is not Ponderton ! ” he said. 

“ Ponderton ? ” said the Baron. “ Ponderton ? Did you 
not say Pimpleton on ze ’phone ? ” 

“ Pimpleton! No, Ponderton. Ponderton, the great 
detective. Who is this fellow ? ” 

It was an embarrassing position, but it was relieved in 
a most astonishing manner. The Countess came hurrying 
down the grass path. Within earshot she cried out: 

“ Oh, Mr. Pimpleton 1 Mr. Pimpleton I ” 

The three men turned. The Countess came up. In her 
right hand she held out a pearl necklace. 

“ Oh, Mr. Pimpleton ! how can I zank you ? ” 

“ But zis is not Pimpleton,” cried the Baron. “ I mean 
it is Pimpleton. It is not Ponderton. 

“ Who vas Ponderton ? ” 

“ It should be Ponderton, but it is Pimpleton.” 

“ I know nozing. But I know it is he who find ze neck¬ 
lace. Listen, you all. I know not how Mr. Pimpleton 
or Mr. Ponderton work, on vat lines, no. But he zink, 
and zink, and zink, for two days. He not poke about like 
zis Battesley. He keep quiet and hide. And then, lo! 
presto ! he find ze clue quick.” 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


295 


“ How do you mean ? ” exclaimed the Baron. 

“ Listen. Zis afternoon I find him here zinking in zis 
garden. I goes to him. He gives me a little—vat you 
call ?—trowel l He says, * Look here, ze clue 1 ’ Zen he 
go away. I hold ze trowel in my hand and I zink also. 
And suddenly it all come back to me. It was here in zis 
garden on ze Saturday ven ze pearls was stolen. I had 
put my chatelaine down on ze zeat here, so! Zey call to 
me to go to ze telephone. Ven I gom back I zee zat man, 
Ben Burnett, ze unter-gartener. He vas vorking quite 
near in ze beds. I zink he give me one funny look, but I 
take no notice. Ze chatelaine vas as it is l So ! I zink 
no more about zis until just so soon. Ven I see ze trowel 
it all gom back. I suspicion him with certainty. I go 
right down quick to his cottage. I go in. He is there 
vis his wife, I accuse him. I say, ‘ Vere is ze necklace 
you vas taken ? ’ He says, no, but his wife burst vif 
tears. Zen I know. He too quite vite he goes. He bends 
ze knee. He tells me all. He vas vat you say, a tickets-of- 
leave man. He vas a bad man. But he lives straight, 
vasn’t it ? He implores forgiveness. His wife cries. She 
will ruin herself if he is taken. I give vay. I am weak. 
I restore me the necklace. I fogive him. I am so happy. 
Oh, Mr. Pondleton, how can I zank you ? ” 

“ I only did my duty/’ said Freddie, quickly. 

“You will stay mit us over ze week-end, shust as a 
guest ? Yes ? ” 

“ Alas, no,” answered Freddie. “ I must catch the six- 
fifteen. I have another urgent case.” 

“ Veil, veil 1 ” cried the Baron. “ I must congratulate 
you, Mr. Pindei;ton. Perhaps I was fortunate after all to 
make zis mistake on ze telephone, eh, Count ? ” 

The Count was annoyed, but he shrugged his shoulders 
and bowed politely to Freddie. 

He did not see Olga again. Close by the box-hedge near 
the summer-house he heard her laughter, and her merry 
voice calling out, “ Fifteen-forty ! ” 


296 


FREDDIE FINDS HIMSELF 


She was playing a single with the curate. 

“ It’s a rum, funny life/’ he thought, as he sat back in 
the corner of a first-class carriage going back to London. 
In his breast-pocket was a cheque for one hundred pounds. 

All this happened three years ago. It seems strange 
that after his brilliant start in the career of a private 
detective he no longer follows that calling. Indeed, he 
never received another commission. 

He is now running a little shop where he sells foreign 
postage stamps, and is doing fairly well. He is married to 
a little girl, the daughter of an ironmonger. She is not 
clever, nor even pretty, but she has redeeming qualities. 
One is that she adores Freddie. She thinks he is handsome, 
loyal, and clever. She is enormously proud of him, and 
she believes in his story about the recovery of the Countess’s 
pearls. Perhaps that is because he told her the truth 
about it. He also told the truth about it to John and 
Emma and Jane, but so embellished was it with romantic 
tissues that the Father of Lies himself might almost have 
claimed it as his own. What would you ? A man must 
defend himself. 


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